


Long Live

by HicSuntDracones



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: And Arthur actually had a shot at character development, And Morgana is a Lesbian because I say so, And other vehicles of pre-sealed Destinies, And simple, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anyway the BBC are cowards, Arthur Pendragon is a Romantic Bitch, Awesome Gwen (Merlin), Awesome Morgana (Merlin), BAMF everyone, Because thats when things were good, Conspiracy, Destiny, Drama, Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff, Fuck Canon, Gratuitous references to Season One, Happy Ending, I've noticed I said fuck a lot in these tags, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Marry Merthur Month, Morgana gets the life she deserves, Powerful Merlin (Merlin), Protective Arthur, Secret Relationship, Seriously this is one big fuck you to the concept of destiny, Swordfighting, There is actually little to no cursing in this story, Thomas Malory Could Never, Wedding, fuck that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2020-11-25 23:43:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20920598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HicSuntDracones/pseuds/HicSuntDracones
Summary: Once there was a prophecy, for Emrys and the Once and Future King to unite Albion. But humans have a habit of screwing things up, so when the two sides of the coin fell in love, all bets were off.(Simply, there's a royal wedding, and the forces of Destiny are scrambling to rearrange the story into something that makes sense.)





	1. The Magic We Made

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Marry Merthur Month everyone! This is dedicated to my awesome beta Jess(love you babe!) and LeaOotoori, because I know how you love the words 'Merlin Pendragon'  
Enjoy wedding fluff and messing with Destiny!  
Note: Do I have any idea where this falls in canon? Nope! Absolute shit fuckery here

In darkness they arrive, cloaked and hooded, faces shadowed, movements barely a whisper. They do not greet each other as they arrive in ones and twos and threes, merely nod and take their places around the circular table. As the final conspirator takes their place, a figure in a faded blue cloak calls the meeting to order.

“How fares the situation in the lower town?”

A tall figure in a green cloak responds. “The girl has been relocated to the druids for education and protection, the guards who noticed either bribed or made to forget in other ways.” The size of the speaker and the way they hold their weight leaves little to the imagination as to how the guards’ memories were altered.

“Good. The king’s attention has been diverted from their settlements as well as the villages where the healer-mages work. For now.”

A hunched figure in a once-white cloak takes their turn. “Speaking of the king, his illness continues to progress. He’s still walking about, but he requires long periods of rest and plain foods. I fear his mind continues to deteriorate. I give him anywhere between six months to two years at the outside, he’s nothing if not stubborn.”

Someone clad in a rich purple cloak speaks. “Are we sure that we should not progress his illness? Even in six months, Uther could do much harm to the kingdom.”

“It will also appear suspicious, the public and many of those inside the castle are unaware of his illness. Speeding it up will cause suspicion, and some may suspect foul play.” A figure in a borrowed red cloak raises their voice, “If the prince is accused of taking the throne by force, it will undo all our work. I know you have a grudge against him,” now addressing the purple-cloaked figure, “most of us do. But we’ve waited this long, surely we can wait a bit longer.”

“I know. Patience is key and all that.” The purple figure mumbles under their breath. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

The blue-cloaked figure draws the group’s attention again. “How goes the work inside the castle?”

“We have entered into discussions with Lord Ulfar. In exchange for protection, he has agreed to support us when the day comes.”

“We will repay him then. I’ll organize a defense around him when the time draws nearer.”

“The castle residents, besides the ones we’ve told, suspect nothing.”

“We should find where their loyalties lie.”

“Most will remain loyal to their masters, very few will mourn the king.” A few gazes turn to the red-hooded figure on the right of the blue-clad leader. Then a throat is cleared and business continued. Once the final issue of the night is addressed, the matter of a chimera spotted in the woods outside Camelot, the blue-cloaked figure dismisses them; “Until our next meeting, may the ideals of the Round Table hold true.”

Someone mumbles, “Does the Princess have to say that every time?” and is promptly silenced with an elbow to the gut. The figures disperse, extinguishing candles as they go and leaving the room in darkness.

The meetings of the secret organization known as the Round Table always went this way. Established less than two years before, they had come together with the purpose of maintaining the safety of the kingdom through the last years of Uther’s reign. It was no secret that the king, while not an old man, was not quite in his right mind, and a cruel tyrant besides. Over the past few years, accusations of sorcery and treason abounded, only some of them founded, and almost all falling on the innocent. While there were still some who still held love or loyalty to the king, it had become clear that the laws he imposed on Camelot were unjust and cruel, and there were many willing to work towards a better future; after a few soul-baring conversations concerning magic, love, and loyalty, a group had come together about the Table Round and set to work.

Quiet movements, careful plans, and utmost secrecy were the hallmarks of the group, all united by their love of Camelot and their desire to see the Crown Prince take the throne of a kingdom ripe for change. They couldn't change everything, for fear of being outed as traitors to the crown, but it was something. Suddenly patrols no longer seized so many accused of sorcery, those opposed to the king’s beliefs found they had allies in court, and servants no longer had to fear being accused of treason. It was new and brave and bold and promised true change once the crown passed on. The forces of Destiny were pleased, as it seemed that prophecy would soon come to pass, bringing a Golden Age across the land.

(Destiny was about to receive one hell of a shock).

Later that same night, the prince and his manservant go through their nightly routine. Dinner is eaten, speeches are written, borrowed cloaks returned to their proper owners, and armor shined.

Arthur looks up from his writing. “Do you think we’re doing the right thing?”

Merlin continues to clean Arthur’s armor. “Seeing as how you were supposed to write that speech two weeks ago, probably not.”

“Not that, idiot.” Arthur throws a quill at him, and watches as it falls short. “I mean with my father, the knights, all of it. No matter how much we do, how many magical children we save or spies we collect, his edicts still hold. We can’t save everyone. No matter what we do, the suffering will continue.”

“There’s not much else we can do, not without revealing ourselves and being arrested for treason. I don’t know about you, but I’ve spent enough time in the stocks as it is.”

“Still, it feels wrong, working in darkness and waiting for him to die. I would never want to kill him, but-”

“Arthur, you heard me at the meeting, you know people will distrust a king who takes the throne by force or under suspicion.”

“I know! I know. It’s just,” he sighs, “This feels like the coward’s way.”

“Would a coward be trying to preserve Camelot and unite Albion?”

“That’s not my point-”

“Then listen to mine. You are the Once and Future King. The fact that you care enough to work peacefully and for the safety of the people shows that you deserve it. It’s not cowardice, it’s sense, which you have a surprising amount of.”

“What?”

“Well, looking at you, you wouldn’t expect much to be going on up there.” He gestures at Arthur’s head. “

Idiot, obviously you have terrible perception. I’ll have you know many a great scheme has been launched from this head.”

“Obviously,” Merlin scoffs, attention returned to the armor. “Now, I need to finish this. Do you mind?”

“Go ahead.” Arthur waves his hand lazily.

A snap of Merlin’s fingers and a rag is polishing Arthur’s helmet on it’s own, both hovering in mid-air. At the same time, the door to Arthur’s chambers locks and bolts itself. Arthur watches as Merlin’s eyes flash gold before fading back to blue. It’s a shame that no one else gets to see Merlin’s eyes like this, lit up from within, coated with the magic that is the very essence of their land.

“When I’m king, you won’t have to hide like this.”

“Of course not. You’ll probably make me wear a stupid hat with feathers big enough to see from Mercia.”

Arthur crosses to where Merlin is turning down the bed. He holds him from behind, arms around Merlin’s waist. “You overestimate me,” he says in Merlin’s ear. “You’d only be able to see the feathers from the Lower Town.”

“How silly of me.”

“Besides, I don’t think the Court Sorcerer of Camelot will wear anything he doesn’t want to, will you-” Arthur’s voice drops to barely a whisper- “Emrys.”

Merlin freezes. “Don’t.”

“Why not? If you can call me the Once and Future King, surely I can call you by your proper title. The future Court Sorcerer of Camelot deserves nothing less.”

“Cabbagehead,” Merlin mutters at the statement as he turns around in Arthur’s embrace, looping his arms around Arthur’s neck.

“I’m serious! You deserve to be known, to be appreciated just as much as me or the knights, if not more. When I’m king-”

“You’ll still be a clotpole.”

“When I’m king,” Arthur repeats, “You’ll be able to do whatever you like.”

“Like this?” Merlin pulls them together and kisses him soundly.

“Exactly like that,” Arthur murmurs before leaning in again. The helmet and rag fall to the ground as the spellcaster becomes thoroughly distracted.

Later, they're curled underneath the covers, Merlin's head resting on Arthur's shoulder as he breathes in the steady way of sleep. Arthur stares up at the canopy of his bed, dreaming awake. He meant it, he thinks. When he was king, things would be different. A vision unfolds in his mind, of Camelot bright and shining. He sees Lancelot and Gwaine wearing knights colors, Gaius free to use magic against sickness and injury, Morgana able to explore her magic, Gwen a Royal Advisor, himself wearing a golden crown with Merlin at his side, eyes glowing with freed magic. That image sticks in his mind, the beginnings of an idea forming in his mind as he drifts off to sleep.

The idea remains with him throughout the next morning. He finds himself continually distracted as he goes about his duties, Merlin by his side as always.It is far too easy to imagine a ring on Merlin’s slim finger, a matching one on his own hand. It’s far too easy to imagine a future where Merlin stands beside him in royal garb, eyes glowing gold and silver circlet on his brow. It isn’t until Gaius steals his manservant away for some kind of physician’s work that Arthur gets even a moment of peace.

He paces around his chambers. The notion won’t leave him alone. It’s ridiculous, he thinks. His father would never allow such a thing, for so many reasons. But then, his father wouldn’t be around forever, wouldn’t be around much longer at all. Something inside him chafes at the idea of hiding away, waiting for yet another thing to be untainted by his father’s rule. His pacing morphs into stomping around his rooms, something akin to anger rising within him. Why should he wait? Had he not been patient? Was he not biding his time in every other manner, waiting patiently for the day his father would be gone and he could be the king his people needed? Was it selfish to take this one thing for himself, this one thing for Merlin? Why shouldn’t he ask for them to be bound in this final way?

He finally stops pacing, thinking hard. There are many reasons he should not. But there is no reason he cannot. In a fit of impulse, he marches out the door, making his way through the castle with a single goal in mind. He only pauses when he finds himself in front of the door to the library, Geoffrey’s domain. _What am I doing,_ he thinks. Then he squares his shoulders and pushes the door open, knowing exactly what he wants.

“Your Highness,” Geoffrey greets him, rising from behind his desk. “I was not expecting you. Is there something you require?”

“As a matter of fact there is Geoffrey. But first I require your discretion, that you will speak to no one about what we discuss here today. Can I trust you?”

Geoffrey seems startled by the question. “Of...of course my lord. If I may ask, what is the matter that requires such secrecy?”

Arthur takes a deep breath, then leaps in head first. “It concerns marriage. You have the authority to wed any two persons, do you not?”

“Yes, I do sire.” Geoffrey says slowly. “You wouldn’t know, but I was the one who married your mother and father.” The old man seems to have more to say, more questions, but he stays silent.

“You truly mean any two persons? Even if one was noble and the other common? Or,” he stops, swallows, “Or if the participants were both the same gender?”

“My lord king may not recognize such a union, but I would be willing to perform it if that is what you are asking, sire. May I ask who the parties to be wed are?”

“Well….”

Once he has things sorted with Geoffrey, it takes him another two weeks to finish his plans. He tells no one, especially not Merlin. It seems as if he suspects nothing, and Arthur manages to keep it that way. It’s a warm twilight when he announces to Merlin they’ll be going hunting, just the two of them. He orders Merlin to fetch the horses, not mentioning anything about chainmail or crossbows, which earns him a look you’d normally give to someone who had suddenly started speaking in tongues. But Merlin lets the oddity slide, and says nothing as they ride into the woods, instead repeating an awful joke he’d heard from Percival. As their laughter dies down, Arthur smiles, a smug, cocky thing before nudging his horse into a gallop, racing ahead. Merlin calls after him, but he doesn’t slow down until he’s far out of earshot, knowing Merlin will follow him wherever he goes. Everything was going according to plan. (But not Destiny’s plan, you see. If Destiny had a forehead, it would be breaking out in a cold sweat right about now. None of this was supposed to happen. Something would have to be done about it.)

\------

Arthur had been acting odd for weeks. Merlin had first noticed it the morning after the last meeting of the Round Table. The royal prat had been thoroughly distracted by something all that day, so distracted that one of the knights managed to disarm him during training(Merlin had definitely not laughed). Then he proceeded to misspell the word Camelot at least three different times while drafting a treaty, and it was only Merlin’s careful eye that prevented trade goods from being sent to ‘Comalet’. And since that day, Arthur had been alternating between being in a supremely good mood and acting incredibly nervous about....something. The prat insisted ‘he was fine, Merlin’, ‘don’t be such a girl’s petticoat’,’you worry too much’, but Merlin hadn’t lived with the man this long to not realize when something was suspicious.

And now this ridiculous ‘hunt’. Arthur hadn’t even brought his crossbow along, or any other weapons for that matter. How were they meant to hunt without weapons? And in the dark too, come to think of it. Sunset was approaching rapidly, and hunting in the dark was nigh impossible. Well, unless Arthur had plans to do something entirely separate from hunting, but he normally told Merlin about these plans, because it took two people to snog, and they couldn’t very well do anything if the prat was galloping ahead like a madman-Merlin sighs. The things he puts up with….

Then he sees a glowing light out of the corner of his eye. He quickly dismounts, not even stopping to secure his horse, mind running wild with thoughts of this being some sorcerer’s enchantment to lure Arthur out of the castle. He has a spell on the tip of his tongue as he approaches the glowing light, only to relax when he draws near. It’s just an ordinary candle, of the same kind that the castle uses, halfway buried in the dirt. There’s another a few feet away. And another after that one. His eyes quickly follow a whole trail of candles, barely melted as if they’d been lit recently. Curious, he follows the trail deeper into the woods.

It quickly splits into two lines of candles, forming a path through the underbrush. Merlin smiles to himself, having an inkling as to who might be behind this. The candle path twists and turns through the trees, and just as he’s wondering how much longer this will go on, the path opens into a small clearing, and there’s Arthur.

The Crown Prince of Camelot is standing in the middle of a circle of candles, hands behind his back, and wearing the face that most people think means he’s calm but Merlin knows means he’s nervous as anything.

“What’s all this?” Merlin teases, “ You’ll burn half the forest down if you’re not careful-”

“Merlin,” Arthur begins seriously, “Could you please refrain from being your normal talkative self for a few minutes, because I may not be able to say this properly otherwise.”

“Say what properly?” Arthur gives him a _look,_ and Merlin quickly shuts his mouth. Arthur fidgets, hands still hidden behind his back. He takes a deep breath. “Merlin, you told me once that destiny brought us together, for the future of Albion. But it wasn’t destiny that made me love you. You’re rude and annoying and horribly optimistic and stupidly brave...What I’m trying to say is that there’s no one else I’d rather have by my side. We’ve been through a lot together, and I’ve-I’ve changed because of you. You’ve made me a better ruler, a better friend, a better man. You’re-” He takes another breath, as if to steady himself. “You’re my heart, and I would never want to live without you. So, I know it’s probably ridiculous at this point, with everything we’ve done and everything we are to each other, but I’d still very much like to marry you.”

And now Arthur’s kneeling, hands out in front of him and offering a silver ring-Ygraine’s ring-to Merlin. And Merlin can’t speak, can’t say a single word, because this is Arthur, and there’s candles and a ring and he’s just...Merlin.

“You want to marry me?” He half chokes out incredulously.

Arthur seems offended, “No, I’m proposing to the other love of my life _Mer_lin.”

“You didn’t actually propose, you clotpole,” Merlin has to tease, otherwise he may start crying, “Proposing would involve you actually asking a question instead of just saying you’d like to marry me-”

“Will you? Marry me?” Arthur interrupts, and he sounds so earnest, so hopeful, so vulnerable, looking at Merlin like he’s hung the moon and colored the sky, and now Merlin actually is crying.

“Yes. Of course you stupid clotpole, yes!” Merlin runs to him, practically tackling him to the ground. Arthur huffs out a laugh as he attempts to put the ring on Merlin’s finger, thoroughly distracted by his lover-his fiance-trying to kiss him senseless. They embrace, and it feels like love and destiny and magic and joy all rolled into one, soothing and exciting at the same time, like returning home after a long time away. (Which just goes to show that human beings, even supremely magical ones, have practically no ability to sense the forces of destiny, which had not planned this.)

\----

You would think that after years of the two dancing around each other, making every possible excuse for why they weren’t obscenely in love with each other; and then several more years of a frankly interesting relationship consisting mostly of insults, snogging, and the occasional attempts to sacrifice themselves for the other, the wedding would be similarly complicated. But really, the whole thing went off without a hitch.

The ceremony itself was small and brief, but nonetheless for it. Geoffrey and the members of the Round Table crowded into a little-used chapel in the dead of night, filling the small space with laughter and flowers and candles, making the event both grander and humbler than it really was. Words were said, rings were exchanged(Arthur most certainly did not cry), and they kissed to seal their marriage, a bit embarrassed to have everyone watching but mostly too happy to care.

The wedding turned into a party when several of the guests produced alcohol from their bags and cloaks, and they quickly set about having a grand old time. A midnight party with no music erupted as they danced and drank, teasing the newlyweds and themselves for how ridiculous this all was. Morgana and Merlin summoned lights to float around the chapel, creating the feeling of a fairy dance as they basked in the golden glow. Everyone got a little tipsy, and the flowers put to good use.

Gwaine took one and offered it to Merlin, “And you’re quite sure about this? I could treat you very well you know. Just look at me!” He spread his arms wide to demonstrate his offering. The knights laughed and Arthur scowled, not really upset but holding Merlin’s hand tighter anyway.

“Nuh-uh-uh!” Merlin drawled, pleasantly just past tipsy as he shook his finger at Gwaine. “No more flirting, at least not with me. I’m a married man now!” He said with great satisfaction before pitching forward, almost landing on his face. He really was a lightweight when it came to alcohol.

“You ridiculous man,” Arthur whispered in his ear as he held Merlin up. “Remind me why I married you again?”

“‘Cause you love me, obviously.”

“Of course.”

Gwen approached them, also somewhere past tipsy and incredibly happy for it, and placed flower crowns on their heads before moving onto the knights and complaining that Percival was far too tall and she could not reach his head. Percival, a sad sort of drunk, almost began crying at this.

“Merlin Pendragon,” Arthur whispered to his husband as Leon sweeps Guinevere into a dance to spare the rest of the Round Table from flowers in their hair. Everyone quickly gets into the spirit of the thing, dancing and singing to the tune of half a dozen different songs and partnering off. They were drunk enough that the music seemed beautiful and their dancing graceful while they thoroughly drained the contents of several wine bottles. The newlyweds began something vaguely resembling a waltz as Merlin suddenly responded,

“What?”

“Merlin Pendragon,” Arthur repeated empathetically, not as drunk as some but definitely not sober. “That’s your name now.”

“Says who?” Merlin asked playfully as they sway to Elyan’s rendition of a not-at-all-appropriate ballad.

“Says me, and Geoffrey, and this,” Arthur brought Merlin’s hand to his lips, kissing his fourth knuckle and the ring that lay there. “Someday, everyone’s going to know. Going to know that that’s your name and that you’re mine and -”

Merlin shut him up with a kiss. It went on for quite awhile, with hands sliding into hair and Morgana wolf-whistling from where she was dancing with Gwaine. “Someone wants to get on with their wedding night!”(Morgana was pleasantly inebriated as well, but honestly didn’t need to be under the influence of drink to embarrass Arthur.)

When the two finally separate, Merlin whispered, “You know, it goes both ways, you’re mine too, dollophead.”

“That’s still not a word.”

“Too bad for you then, you’ll be hearing it for the rest of your life.”

“I’m very lucky then.”

“Damn right you are, I’m a catch.”

“You’re ridiculous when you’re drunk.”

“You’re ridiculous when you’re sober.”

The conversation continued like this for awhile, because they may have been in love, but they still enjoyed being assholes to each other. The party went on until the night began to turn from very late to very early, only really breaking up once Leon passed out following an ill-advised drinking contest with Gwaine. After that, everyone began to leave so they could try to sleep off the hangovers they’d be sure to have the next morning, and so that the newlyweds could go do what newlyweds do. That night, it seemed as if things might turn out okay.

(But here’s the tricky part. If I haven’t introduced myself yet, let me do so now. I’m your friendly neighborhood narrator, the one who knows how this story ends. You may have noticed some of my previous comments about the forces of destiny and how they were getting nervous. You see, the lives of our beloved characters were heavily influenced by the forces of destiny; there was a prophecy concerning Emrys and the Once and Future King of Albion. The two had roles they were meant to play and paths they were meant to follow, and unfortunately love and marriage between them was part of none of these paths.

They weren’t meant to love each other; but destiny didn’t account for human error when beginning it’s machinations. The decisions influenced by love and honesty were radically altering their fates and the fates of those around them to something that certainly had never been prophesied. This was causing the semi-sentient forces of destiny and magic to worry, as they had no idea where the story was going. Their worry was perhaps well-placed.

You see, if Arthur and Merlin hadn’t gotten married on that Tuesday night, then Merlin wouldn’t have visited the dungeons and told Kilgharrah about it the next day.

If he had not told Kilgharrah about the midnight wedding, then the Great Dragon wouldn’t have gotten all huffy and complained about how ‘he was pretty sure destiny didn’t cover this’-he was actually right for once in this case.

If Kilgharrah hadn’t been all huffy and moody that morning, he would have caught the rabbit that was hopping rather close to one of the air-holes in his cave.

If he had caught the rabbit, he wouldn’t have been so frustrated about how his day was going that he sent a bout of flame through the hole, startling a kitchen boy skiving off near the dungeons.

If the flame had not been sent up, the kitchen boy would not have seen it and run screaming into the courtyard, where he tripped and fell face-first into a pile of dung.

If he had not fallen face-first into a pile of dung, the Royal Court walking by wouldn’t have seen this and stopped to laugh at the poor boy.

If they had not stopped to laugh at the boy, then Uther would not have been in such a good mood for the rest of that morning.

If Uther had not been in such a good mood, he would have been less forgiving to a lord arranging a visit to Camelot-who had sent a message saying that he would be arriving later than planned-and told him to take all the time he needed to prepare for his visit. This delay of the lord’s departure for Camelot enabled a sorceress to obtain a ride with the caravan she otherwise would have missed, and further her plan of sneaking into Camelot seeking Arthur’s head. Why she was seeking Arthur’s head is not terribly important to this story-we’ll leave it at the fact that Uther was cruel and many people wanted revenge-and indeed was a common occurrence in those days. All that matters is that she was there, and that her actions would help to rewrite destiny into something very different than it was intended to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So i squealed while writing the proposal scene.  
And yes, the title and chapter names are from Taylor Swift's 'Long Live', which is such a Merthur song, go listen to it right now.


	2. The Walls We Crashed Through

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay, but this turned out to be a monster; I had a brainstorm about halfway through and had to rewrite EVERYTHING. You know that feeling? But I think you're going to love this.  
Shout out as always to my beautiful and glorious beta Jess, who read this over and screamed/squealed at me quite a bit.

Merlin wasn’t stupid. Did he often play the fool to divert suspicion from his illegal sorcery? Yes. Did he have an extraordinary amount of ambition reserved for his king that often bordered on foolhardy? Yes. Had he once participated in a drinking contest with Gwaine and woken up pantless in the stables? Well, yes. But he wasn’t stupid.

(But, dear reader, if you must take anything from this story, take the lesson that you should never, _ ever _ challenge Gwaine to a drinking contest.)

Despite all Arthur’s optimism for Camelot’s future, _ their _future, Merlin knew it would be a long time, if ever, before his role could be recognized. It would be a long time before he could use his magic freely, speak his mind in court, wear his ring on his finger rather than on a chain around his neck. 

Because now, on top of being a warlock, traitor, and conspirator against the crown, he was also the man who’d wed Uther’s son, and he wasn’t sure which of those offenses would get him killed quicker.

If there was anything Merlin knew in this world, it was that A) he loved his king, and B) he would do anything to make Arthur happy and ensure his rule. When he’d said yes to Arthur, taken his ring and his heart and given everything of himself in return, he knew it would have to remain a secret. There weren’t many who would accept their future king marrying a warlock, marrying a servant, marrying a man. But at this point in his life, Merlin was excellent at keeping secrets.

The wedding remained a secret to everyone except those who had attended(and Hunith, informed by letter, because if you think Merlin wouldn’t tell his mother about something of this magnitude, you have another thing coming); but while Arthur filled his head with strategies and Round Table meetings and glorious hope for the future, Merlin couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something deeply wrong with the world.

Of course, there was something deeply wrong with the world; this would be the strands of destiny getting ferociously tangled and weaving themselves into new patterns, prompted by the idiotic and not-at-all-intended-to-happen love between a warlock and his king. But Merlin, being partly human, twenty-five(and therefore a dumbass), and not at all a Seer, could not See or identify the source of the strange magical imbalances he was feeling. So he did what he always did when he got a strange feeling about the future. He went to Morgana.

In the two years since she’d joined the Round Table, Morgana had also taken on the full duties of the King’s Ward and Lady of the House; she was no longer incapacitated by illness or nightmares, which had been symptoms of repressing her magical talents. During the day, she could do little to develop her skills, but she did manage to keep telepathic contact with a few select individuals. It was in this way that she always knew when Merlin was looking for her.

“Hello dear brother-in-law,” she announced grandly, coming up behind Merlin in an empty hallway, tugging at his neckerchief with a sly smile.

“ ‘Lo ‘Gana. You do know I’m not actually your brother-in-law, right?”

“Details, details,” she dismisses this concern with a wave of her hand. “You and Arthur do the unmentionables, there’s finally a somewhat sensible Pendragon, and Arthur’s good as my brother anyway.” (A note from the narrator: At this point in time the members of the Round Table remained unaware of Morgana’s relation to the Pendragons, which is an important point we’ll return to later.) “Now, what do you want?”

“Have you Seen”-here he punctuates by wiggling his fingers to indicate magical influence-”anything lately? Anything about Camelot being in danger or pyres being lit, or well, anything really?”

“I haven’t been Seeing anything out of the ordinary, just the normal snippets. Why? Is something wrong?” She fixes Merlin with a ‘what have you done now’ glare.

“I haven’t done anything! I just...have this _ feeling _, that something is wrong, that something is going to go wrong.”

“You’re no Seer, Merlin.”

“I know-”

“But while I may think you’re being paranoid, I’ve felt a strange itch too these past few days. It may just be our magic getting restless though, we haven’t done much with it lately.”

“That’s a different feeling though, at least it is to me.”

“Fine, I’ll check. Is there anything specific I’m looking for?”

“Not that I know of…”

“You are incredibly helpful.”

“Hey, who was it who fixed your window after your magic practice broke it for the third time this month?”

“Alright, if that’s how you want to play it. Who was it that snuck you out of Arthur’s rooms when Uther decided to surprise him with an early morning hunting trip?”

“You rolled me up in a carpet!”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

“I am eternally glad you’re on my side.”

“As you should be, brother dear. I’ll try to focus my visions later tonight, now go. You know it’s not proper for a servant and a Lady to be unsupervised, you may impugn my virtue.” She laughed as Merlin snorted.

“You are mad.”

“And you adore me, now go, be useless somewhere else.”

“Thanks ‘Gana.” Merlin hugged her quickly and darted down the hallway just as some courtiers came around a corner. Morgana only rolled her eyes with a fond smile and returned to work.

Running a castle was no small feat. Even with the invaluable help of Gwen and the castle stewards, Morgana had to devote most of her time to her formal duties. There were feasts to be planned, maids to be hired, payments to be supervised, and a hundred other tasks that needed her personal attention. As such, the illegal practice of sorcery had to be relegated a side activity. This was endlessly frustrating in Morgana’s eyes.

Her magic had been unavailable to her for so much of her life, and now that she could finally use it, the development of her gifts was going far too slow for her liking. Gaius said that this was normal for most magic-users, that Merlin was in no way the standard, but this did nothing to stop Morgana from figuring out shortcuts for focusing her magic. Without any preparation, she could simply close her eyes and catch simple snippets of the future: a few words of conversation here, a glimpse of an event there, but no control over what she was viewing. When she slept, it was the opposite: incredibly vivid and complete visions of future happenings that could be valuable sources of information. Yet even there she had no control over what she viewed. Control over the visions only came with a bit of preparation, complete concentration, and a bit of help from a focusing agent such as a mirror. It was this third method that Morgana employed when she needed to look for specific items.

That night, Morgana bid Gwen farewell for the night before locking her doors and windows. In the event of something going wrong or, gods forbid, Uther coming to her chambers to talk, she had to make sure all evidence of magic was hidden. Once satisfied with the security of her room, she turned down the blankets on her bed so only the mattress was visible. Then she spoke a simple spell to tear the fabric, reaching her hand through the feather down and extracting a silver hand mirror engraved with runes. Another spell sealed the hole in the mattress once more, and she sat cross legged atop the bed before beginning another spell.

With two fingers, she drew a pattern over the surface of the mirror, whispering words of power. Her eyes glowed like embers, like forge-fires. They faded quickly as sparks, the spell failing to take. Morgana spoke a considerably ruder word before renewing her focus and speaking the spell again. It takes three more tries, but the spell finally took, and the mirror began to display images previously seen only inside Morgana’s head.

Like she’d told Merlin, only fragments of the future could be Seen right now, and none of them were dangerous; some guards out hunting-after a hart no doubt-, a feast with acrobats as entertainment, and her second best dress singed. Nothing dangerous at all, except perhaps she should beware of candles near her gown. 

Unsatisfied, she drew in a deep breath. 

She called up feelings of danger and fear, trying to divine if there were any futures where harm came to Camelot or the Round Table. But the images only repeated, over and over and over again. Guards in pursuit, a boisterous feast, a singed dress. 

She groaned. Learning to See was hard work. Hopefully something would come to her as she slept, or she’d have to tell Merlin he had nothing to worry about, which would inevitably make her worry more. Really, the men in her life were so annoying. She rolled her eyes as she hid the mirror once more and climbed into bed.

That night she dreamed of herself on the throne of Camelot, wearing a golden crown and velvet gloves. This was a common fantasy for her, and a pleasant one, so it never occurred to her that it could be prophetic. It also never occurred to her that her prior spell had actually been successful, and the images she’d seen before were all connected. 

Indeed, the first of the images made itself a reality a few days later, when a parade of visiting nobles rode into Camelot for a trade negotiation, unknowingly bringing a hidden sorceress with them. 

Gwen was swept into a flurry of preparations, and suspected nothing of the visitors. The noble family were all very above board and boring; the sons enjoyed hunting, the daughters tolerated embroidery, the lord and lady wanting to untangle some land dispute that only had meaning to them and Uther. The only interesting thing about them at all in Gwen’s opinion were the twelve acrobats that came with them as entertainment for the feast that would be thrown in their honor. (Of course, one of these acrobats was a sorceress, but no one in Camelot knew this yet. And even if Gwen had been suspicious of the entertainment, she had no time to investigate).

Due mostly to Gwen’s efforts, the feast went as smoothly as anything could in Camelot. The main disasters were just Merlin falling asleep scrubbing the floor; Morgana having a minor fit when she could not wear her favorite wine-red dress due to the conservative sensibilities of the visiting nobility; Percival leading a group of younger knights on a snack run to the already busy kitchens, causing a good deal of chaos; and Gwaine being rather drunk before the feast even started. 

Suffice to say, Guinevere had a lot on her plate. But she always did, this was no different than balancing helping her dad(may he rest in peace) at the forge and her job as Morgana’s ladies maid, and she was more than capable. Gwen had long ago surpassed the duties of a maid, and in the castle was second only to Morgana and one or two of the castle stewards. If there was a problem, it passed through her, and she solved it. The staff adored her, as she was one of them; the nobility found her pleasant and polite; the knights all agreed that it would be an honor to perish in the defense of Guinevere(not that she needed them to, but she supposed that this was how they showed affection), and even Uther noticed when she got her hands into something because it always turned out a hundred times better. 

With a lot of running around(and a bit of help from Leon, widely known as the only other sensible person in all of Camelot), everything was sorted out by the time Uther began his standard boring welcome speech.

Merlin was on his feet again thanks to a mysterious potion Gauis called coffee; Arthur the worried husband had been assuaged, shooed away and told to change(he meant well, he really did, but he was a nuisance and thought it was acceptable to wear chainmail to a feast, who did that?); Morgana looked ravishing in her slightly less scandalous second-best dress; the kitchen knights had been chased away, spoon shaped bruises on their hides and egos; and the whereabouts of Gwaine and Percival were unknown at the moment, so it was safe to assume that they were distracting each other in a closet somewhere.

Gwen finally relaxed as she took her place behind Morgana at the high table, breathing deeply and readjusting her grip on a jug of wine. The hall is bright and calm, every surface shining, candles casting the room in a golden glow as guests quietly pick at appetizers. Servants and guardsmen in their finest livery adorn the room along with golden banners. There is a notable absence of large feathered hats.

Uther drones on, but Gwen’s favorite part of the night has just begun. Her official position as Morgana’s ladies maid allows her to be within speaking distance of three of her favorite people in the world, and therefore make conversation throughout the dull feast. 

“So,” she whispers to Merlin, next to her behind the table, “how many times do you think Uther will say the word ‘duty’?”

“At least seven,” Merlin responds, “I’ve already counted five.”

“I’ll raise your bet to nine,” Arthur murmurs over his wine glass.

"...As citizens of Camelot, it is our sacred duty…”

“Six,” the four of them whisper simultaneously before stifling their smiles.

“You’d think they could at least be attractive,” Morgana mourns of the visitors. “They’re all so very dull, you think they could at least have some attractive women.”

“That fellow in the green isn’t half-bad looking,” Merlin ventures.

“You’re a married man, Merlin, shame on you.” Gwen says with a smile.

“Hey, just because I’m off the market doesn’t mean I can’t look-” Arthur begins to cough, staring at Merlin in the way that said he most certainly should _ not _ look, “And it’s fun to get a rise out of Arthur,” Merlin finishes, cheeky as anything.

“You’re horrid.”

“Why thank you Milady Morgana.”

“So who would you pick? The fellow in green or the blonde one?” 

“Definitely not the fellow in green, he’s old enough to be my grandfather.”

“She has a point Merlin, should I be worried?”

“Oh shut it, you great prat.”

“I’d go with the woman in yellow, sitting with the performers,” Gwen interrupts. The other three turn their gazes to the woman in question, and their vocabularies subsequently deteriorate into various quiet noises of agreement. 

Morgana speaks for all of them; “Gwen darling, you have excellent taste.”

Unbeknownst to them, the supposed performer was the sorceress in disguise, waiting for an opportunity to make her move. Her moment came as Uther finally finished his speech-”But there is no reason pleasure and duty-” “Seven” “cannot mix”- and introduced the performers. Eleven acrobats and a sorceress stood in the center of the hall, everyone in attendance watching eagerly. And then all hell broke loose.

The grand doors slam shut, the sorceress’ eyes glowing gold as she raises her hand. Gwen only has a moment to scream “Get down!” before a fireball is launched at the high table. She pulls Morgana’s chair back, knocking them both underneath the table as they brace for a fiery impact. 

But the burning never comes. Gwen turns her head to see Merlin standing before the table, hand outstretched and eyes golden, shaking with the effort of restraining a fireball in mid-air. A battle of wills between two sorcerers, and Merlin nearly wins. The fireball begins flying back to the hand that cast it, but detonates too soon. Flames explode across the hall, and guests begin to scream.

Food and drink are knocked to the floor as guests run to the doors, but every exit is sealed by magic. Upset candles ignite the tablecloths, adding to the blazes that used to be tapestries on the walls. Gwen’s arm is suddenly caught in the vise of Morgana’s grip, her gaze caught by the determination in her Lady’s eyes.

“We need to help!” Morgana orders, shouting over the chaos. “Put out what flames you can, and make sure everyone is as shielded as possible. This is going to get ugly.” She sets off at a low crouch, pushing people under tables and smothering small flames with dishware. Gwen copies her, traveling in the opposite direction.

In the center of the hall, Merlin and the sorceress are chanting, conjuring and dispelling elements fast as blinking. Wind buffers around them, sparks fly, another fireball deteriorates against a golden shield. 

“Get iron!” Merlin shouts at Arthur, who was trying to break down one of the side doors and free the guests. 

“Cover me!” Arthur screams back as he makes a dash for one of the tables. Merlin throws up another shield as the sorceress conjures three more fireballs, sending them towards Arthur. Her aim is shoddy, and two explode against Merlin’s shields, but the third hits a chandelier and sends it blazing towards the ground. 

Gwen pulls a petrified woman out of the way, shoving them both behind a table. “Stay here and stay down!” she shouts, but even the tables are beginning to catch fire now, flames spreading to clothing.

Morgana speaks a few words, her eyes adding to the burning in the room; her magic gathers water and wine from the few unspilled goblets, throwing it on the flames. But it’s not enough. They need more water-

“Got it!” Arthur shouts, brandishing an iron carving knife pulled from the wreckage of the feast table. He shoves Merlin out of the way and launches himself at the sorceress. She shouts a word, and Arthur is thrown against the wall as if by an invisible giant.

Merlin roars, renewing his elemental attacks against the sorceress. The fires are still burning though, and there is no more water in the hall...Gwen has an epiphany. 

“The kitchen water!” she shouts. Merlin understands immediately, forcing the doors open with a spell. A few panicked guests manage to escape before the sorceress spells them closed again. She sends forth one more fireball, then falls to the ground, a knife in her throat. 

Arthur’s arm is still outstretched, halfway unbelieving that the iron had pierced the sorceress’ shields, but Merlin wastes no time. He chants in an ancient tongue, summoning as much water as he can. Water answers in the form of a giant wave roaring through the castle, crashing into the grand hall and smothering the worst of the flames. The chaos dies with a faint hissing sound. A great silence falls over the hall, punctuated only by Merlin belatedly realizing his neckerchief was slightly on fire then proceeding to rip it off and stomp on it.

Gwen makes a check of the room; everyone is alive and moving as far as she can see, some with burns but most only with singed clothing. Lords, ladies, and guardsmen slowly emerge from their hiding places, wringing out sodden formal wear and checking their loved ones for hurts. But the high table is empty. Gwen can see Arthur and Morgana, breathing heavily and exchanging panicked looks, but where is-

“Guards!” Uther erupts from behind the upended high table, breeches sodden and crown askew. “Arrest the sorcerer!” The guards are still stunned, but they warily obey, two of the bravest grabbing Merlin by the arms as everyone snaps out of their shock. They shove him to his knees in front of the king, wisely holding iron knives close to his skin.

Gwen meets Morgana’s eyes from across the room. Whatever comes next, it does not bode well for Merlin or the members of the Round Table. They’ll have to control the fallout as much as possible. Gwen begins mentally cataloging their allies and weapon stocks, planning ways to bribe the guards who had dungeon duty tonight. She’d have to get to Leon, he’d be returning from patrol of the lower town any time-and now Arthur’s raging at Uther.

“What are you doing?!”

“He conspired to kill you, to kill all of us!” Uther spreads his arms to indicate the hall, still smoldering and drenched.

“He saved our lives, saved my life!”

Uther watches rather than hears his son defend the manservant. Arthur’s arms are waving madly, he’s seething, saying something about loyalty, but everything outside his own head seems quieter at the moment. Calmly, he surveys the guests, the destroyed banquet hall. No one is injured, not seriously at least. On one side of the hall, Morgana is standing with her ladiesmaid, engaged in some kind of hushed conversation. He’ll have to start an investigation into the castle staff after this. 

Arthur is still raging, the entire hall watching. Again and again, he had put himself in danger, but Camelot in danger for this boy, and here was finally an explanation. Sorcery. How could they have been so blind?

Uther sighs internally. He raises his hand, and his son falters. “The events of tonight are regrettable,” he begins, addressing everyone present. “But the damages will be repaired, and the source of them dealt with.” He looks to his guards, “Prepare the pyre. The sorcerer will burn as soon as possible-”

“No!”

“Arthur-”

“You can’t kill him!”

“He used magic, Arthur. I don’t know why you’re so attached to this boy, but surely you must see what is right in front of you. Your manservant-” he spits out the word,“-just attempted to burn this hall and everyone in it. He will burn as he tried to burn us-”

“Are you mad?” There’s a gasp from the room. How dare he, Uther thinks. Arthur has just called him mad in front of Camelot’s court, not to mention their visitors. And he’s continuing, “Merlin put out the fires, it was her that started them!” Arthur indicates the body on the floor.

“My admiration for killing her then, saves us the wood for another pyre! It doesn’t matter who started the fires, both used magic and both attacked you!”

“For godssakes you blind fool!” The sorcerer speaks for the first time, pushing against his captors and getting a knee to the chest for his efforts. “I know you’re about to kill me and all, but I had hoped that you would understand, after all these years, that I would _ never _ hurt your son.”

Uther finally turns his gaze from Arthur’s heresy to the sorcerer responsible for this whole mess. Then he freezes. The boy is wearing a ring around his neck. Uther would know that ring anywhere. It’s silver, hanging from a chain and glinting in the dim light. It practically winks at him, teasing him. It is the ring he gave to his beloved wife, the ring his son has worn for most of his life, the symbol of everything he’s loved and lost. And it is hanging around this traitorous magical serving boy’s neck. 

His earlier calm abandons him in an instant as he calls to the guards, “Attend me, and bring the boy!” He storms out one of the side doors, screaming for someone to start cleaning up the hall, but that is the least of his concerns at the moment. The guards follow him down a narrow hallway, dragging the servant between them. 

The second he is out of earshot of the hall, he turns and strikes the serving boy across the jaw. The sound rings out in the cramped hallway, but the insolent boy says nothing, only stares at the king with a lifetime of fear and hatred in his eyes. Uther grabs him by the collar, by the chain around his neck, the chain with the ill-gotten ring hanging from it. 

He speaks deadly quiet, “You infiltrate my household, practice magic in the heart of Camelot, attempt murder, and after all that still feel the need to steal from me.”

“I stole _ nothing _.” All defiance now. Uther strikes him again, bloodying his nose. “Big man, hitting someone who can’t defend themselves.” He spits bloody saliva at Uther’s feet.

“You _ insolent swine _-”

A door slams, and Arthur is storming down the hallway, cape flowing, looking every inch a warrior king. Except his fury is aimed at Uther, and it multiplies as he takes in the sight of his manservant. “You struck him?” 

Uther can barely believe what he is hearing. “After everything that has occurred tonight, that’s what you’re concerned about? Striking a traitorous servant!?”

But Arthur only has eyes for the boy now. “He’s not just a servant.”

“You’re right, he’s a traitor and a thief-”

“What has he stolen?” Arthur demands.

“Nothing less than your mother’s ring!” Uther grabs the ring on it’s chain, practically strangling the boy as he shoves the offending article towards Arthur. The king expects to see anger, disgust, and betrayal appear in his son’s eyes. But there is none of that save what is directed towards Uther himself. The next words couldn't possibly come out of his son’s mouth.

“I gave it to him.”

“No-”

“Yes, I gave it to him, he’s mine-”

“He belongs to the pyre now!”

“I love him!” And then there is only the look of horror on Arthur’s face, the fear on the serving boy’s, and the thud of the traitor’s head against the wall as Uther shoves him. 

“You’ve enchanted my son!”

“Get away from him!” There’s the unmistakable sound of a sword being drawn, and Uther is wondering just how strong this enchantment is, to make his son attack him. He commands the sorcerer, “Release your spell!”

“There is no spell,” the sorcerer chokes out, Uther’s hand around his throat. “I only use magic for my king.”

“I am your king!”

“No, he is,” the sorcerer turns his eyes to Arthur, who is standing with his sword pointed at Uther, looking very ready to impale him. 

The king makes his choice. “Guards, restrain the prince. Contain him in his rooms, he is not to be released until the sorcerer is dead and the enchantment lifted. As for the sorcerer-” he grips the boy’s neck ever tighter, his face turning blue- “My original order still stands. Prepare the pyre.” He throws the boy to the ground, hears the satisfying crack of skull on stone.

“Merlin!” The boy doesn’t move. Arthur looks terrified and enraged as he leaps towards Uther, sword aimed at his heart. The king barely dodges the strike before unsheathing his own sword, deflecting a few angry blows before three of the guards manage to restrain Arthur. They receive more than a few cuts for their troubles as they manhandle him away. “Release me! I command you to release me!” His screaming continues until he is out of earshot, hoarse and furious.

Uther takes a deep breath, prods the sorcerer’s body with his foot. “If he’s still alive, take him to the dungeons for the interim, and begin constructing the pyre immediately,” he instructs the guard captain.

“Yes, my lord.” The captain leads his fellows away, boots echoing on the floor as they drag the sorcerer away, leaving Uther alone in the hallway. There was no hesitation in that response, no defiance. A welcome change from what has just occurred. What has just occurred, he asks himself. It can’t have been half an hour since he was giving his welcoming speech, and now…. A magical attack, two sorcerers to blame, and Arthur under an enchantment.

His head aches. His arm aches as well, from god knows what. You would think that after years of work and sacrifice for his kingdom, for his son, he would be permitted the occasional night of rest. Who would have guessed that a mere servant could cause so much chaos, would inspire such passion in his son? He reminds himself that this will all end once the sorcerer is dead. Arthur will return to normal, peace will be restored, he can finally clear up that land dispute with-his arm aches again. Had it ever stopped aching?

It’s throbbing now, the feeling spreading to his chest. He begins walking, avoiding the bloodstains the sorcerer left on the floor and holding his left arm loosely. The throbbing is quickly turning into sharp pain. He can feel himself sweating. What manner of sorcery is this, he wonders. He shouts for any guards that can hear, ordering them to call for Gauis. He’s unsure if his commands are heard before he stumbles to his knees on the cold stone floor. He can’t move.

“Sire! Sire!”

“Gauis,” he orders weakly as he fades out of consciousness.

Arthur curses the existence of doors, of keys, of the entire locksmithing profession. Despite the use of his thinnest daggers, his thickest sword, and his heaviest chair, the doors to his room have yet to budge. The men at his door are not knights he’s trained, but guardsmen loyal only to those who pay their wages. The window is not an option as the courtyard is overseeing the construction of a pyre. A pyre for his Merlin. Merlin was about to burn and here he was throwing things around his room like a child.

He takes a deep shuddering breath, sinking onto his bed. He wasn’t thinking clearly. He needed to calm down, needed a plan. But then the horrible sound of Merlin hitting the ground would echo in his mind; the bright red blood on Merlin’s face would imprint itself behind his eyelids. It had been one thing to know that Uther would order Merlin’s death if his magic was ever discovered; it was another thing entirely to see that his father had physically hurt Merlin. 

And then there had been the bright shine of his own blade: he had attacked the king. His father. In an instant, he had chosen Merlin over his father, his crown, his kingdom. But that wasn’t what scared him. He knows that he would choose Merlin over everything, over everyone, as many times as he needed to. He’s known it for years, since Gedref, since Kanen, since bloody Bayard and that damned chalice. It has never been a question of who he’d choose. What scares him is that the scales are tipping. Two of the biggest secrets in Camelot’s castle had come to light tonight, and Merlin was in danger because of them. Was still in danger.

He needs a plan. A plan. _ A plan _ . Where were the knights? Likely in the barracks, as the younger ranks had not been invited to tonight’s feast. But the barracks were out of his reach, and any knight not in there would be either loyal to his father or far too drunk to help. He could call for a servant or maid, could call for Gwen to pass a message or help release him...but the guards would never allow them privacy. _ He couldn't do anything _! He grabs a cup from his bedside, throwing it at the wall with a shout. He was the dam Crown Prince of Camelot and he couldn't help Merlin, couldn't do anything-

“Always the dramatic, aren’t you?” Morgana’s voice spreads silky-smooth throughout the room, only just loud enough for Arthur to hear. It only takes him a moment to find the half-empty wash basin with Morgana’s face rippling in old bath water.

“Morgana! Where are you?” His mind is racing, this is a resource, something he can use. Morgana can distract Uther or the guards so Arthur can get to the dungeons, smuggle Merlin out, maybe they can cast a memory spell over the king-

“Arthur! Focus!” His attention snapped back to Morgana, “I need to know-”

“Where are you?”

“In the kitchens overseeing the clean-up chaos and talking into a pot! I have limited time with this spell, so shut up and listen!”

“But-”

“Shut it! Uther’s gone to Gaius’ chambers for some reason, so we have a small window of opportunity to get Merlin out of Camelot. I can’t leave the kitchens right this moment, but Gwen’s already heading towards the barracks. Leon and Lancelot will come up to help you with the guards at your door, but you’ll have to deal with the men in the dungeon yourself. I’m assuming you have a plan to get Merlin out of the city?”

“Best option is through the tunnel in the armory, but he’s injured, so likely we’ll head to the stables through the servants quarters, then out the east gate.”

“He’s injured? What did that bastard do to him?!” The water in the basin shook with the force of Morgana’s anger.

“Morgana….”

“Sorry, sorry,” she takes a deep breath. “I’ll get over to Gaius' as soon as possible to monitor the situation with Uther, and we’ll regroup as soon as possible. The joys of damage control.”

“He knows, Morgana.” Arthur says gravely.

“About you two?”

“Everything short of the wedding.”

“That makes things more complicated.”

“I was thinking a memory spell.”

“We can discuss it later, one step at a time.”

“I’ll see you once I’ve gotten him out.”

“Luck be with you.”

“And you.” Morgana’s face vanishes as Arthur begins gathering supplies from around the room. 

A benefit to being part of an illegal group dedicated to conspiracy against the crown was that there were many, many back-up plans for when things went wrong. There were contingencies for everything from Morgana finally snapping to Lancelot’s identity being discovered a second time. One of the more fleshed out plans was what to do in the event of Merlin’s magic being discovered as, despite Merlin’s protests, this was one of the more likely things to happen. But no one had seen it unfolding quite like this. (Well, Morgana had, but she didn’t realize it until later).

Arthur was thanking every deity he’d ever heard of that they had any time at all to put their plans into action, that Uther hadn’t run Merlin through right then and there. He was also blaspheming every holy name ever seen in print for allowing harm to come to his idiot husband. And, to his extreme internal shame, there is also a dark thrill of excitement running underneath his worry and fear. He is no longer sitting at the head of Round Table meetings, saying ‘what if’. He’s taking action. This night feels important, full of meaning, like it would be this night that defined every night to come after.

Of course, it would. The strands of Destiny were getting awfully snarled and tangled as events spiraled out of their control.

(For the reader’s sake, I-your glorious and not at all humble narrator-will explain exactly why Destiny was quickly losing its tenuous grip on what was meant to be. As previously mentioned, the King and his Warlock were never meant to fall in love. But they did. And even if they did fall in love, they certainly weren’t supposed to act on these feelings-there were plenty of version of this story where words of love go unsaid. But in this time, they were in love. And people will do wonderful and terrible things for love.

Their little act of courage and love had resulted in many small, subtle changes made over the years. Honesty has a snowball effect on people; once one truth comes out, more follow. Truth results in change, and many changes were finally coming to fruition.

Arthur was more radical than he’d been years before, no more in thrall to his father; he was able to separate his love for his father from his love for his kingdom. He was also considerably nicer as a result of spending lots of time around Merlin, Gwen, and Morgana, who to put it simply, refused to put up with his shit. He was still a bit of a prat, but he was improving, and really was the very picture of what a noble knight should be.

Morgana and Merlin were no longer afraid of themselves, of their magic, of execution; they were surrounded by people who supported them, who wanted to see them safe to be themselves openly. Morgana was able to work with others for the future of Camelot, for the future of her magical brethren, for her own future. For so many years she was merely Morgana Gorlois, orphan and King’s Ward, whose hand in marriage would make an effective bargaining chip at some point; now she was Morgana Le Fay, sorceress of no small power who had a vision for the future and the charisma of a queen.

Merlin quite honestly had rarely been happier; he was able to be honest with his loved ones, and no longer had to defend Camelot from magical threats all on his own. His magic was stronger, as he now had opportunities to practice it in non-life threatening situations, and the influence of his friends and adoptive family had rather curbed some of his more self-sacrificial tendencies. He’d also stopped taking the-frankly terrible-advice of Kilgharrah, which did wonders for reducing the amount of stress he was under.

Gwen was thriving with her work managing the castle, finally having some say in her own life. She was a decision-maker, an armorer, a strategist with a small force at her back, and essentially a queen without a crown in Camelot; dependant on no one, loved by all, and hungry to help others. 

The honest collaboration of these individuals was a recipe for glorious disaster and radical change that was _ never meant to happen _.)

Arthur was not meant to be charging through the halls of Camelot with Leon and Lancelot at his heels, heading for the dungeons to free a man who was everything his father hated.

Uther was not meant to be fighting against Gauis’ ministrations in the physician’s quarters, feverently denying the man’s assertions that the king had had a heart attack or something similar.

Morgana was not meant to be aiding in the distraction and sedition of the king and seeing an opportunity to strike. 

Gwen was not meant to be secretly gathering the Round Table, having seen the same opportunity as Morgana and deciding to strike while the iron was hot, making plans for what could be a battle to determine the fate of Camelot.

(But it was happening anyway.)

Merlin was not meant to be waking up in a cell, head ringing from not only Uther’s blows, but also the voice of a dammed annoying dragon.

_ “Young warlock, what have you done?” _Kilgarrah’s voice thunders round his skull.

_“A little quieter please!”_ Merlin was terribly nauseous; beyond his bleeding head, there were iron manacles around his wrists, ankles, and neck, burning his skin and blocking his magic. _“I’m trying to think of a way out of here and not throw up, thank you very much! And I haven’t_ _done anything!”_

_ “You’ve destroyed Destiny! My eyes are old, my Sight weak, but I do not see a future where you survive. The balance of things is undone, the Crown fallen low, swords turning and the hope for Albion’s future marching closer to death at every moment!” _

_ “Speak plainly for once in your godsdamned life!” _

_ “Your foolishness will kill you and the future king, and there will be none to bring magic back to the land!” _

_ “First, I’m not going to die. Second, Arthur is not going to die, not if I can do anything about it. And third, even if we do die, there’s the Round Table. Your precious prophecy will get fulfilled by someone.” _As previously mentioned, Merlin was done with taking the dragon’s shit.

_ “But you will leave Camelot! No prophecy speaks of this!” _

_“Prophecies can be wrong! Besides, leaving is better than being killed, what would that do to your prophecy?” _While Kilgarrah tried to come up with a halfway decent response to that, Merlin focused on not vomiting and narrowing down the list of safe places outside of Camelot. Ealdor was a no, as he refused to put Hunith and everyone else in danger if Uther came looking for him. If he had to leave Camelot at all, the druids were the best option, but he still hated to leave Arthur. That was something he was loath to do under any circumstances, but especially when no one’s life was at stake but his own.

_ “Young warlock, are you even listening to me?” _ Merlin had not been listening, as he could now hear the sounds of a scuffle going on in the hallway outside his cell. _ “To even have a hope of restoring destiny to what it once was you cannot abandon your king or his citadel. Caution is key-” _Merlin, still not really listening, smiles as the sounds of fighting die down and the door of his cell swings open to reveal Lancelot, Leon, and an extremely-worried-but-doing-a-decent-job-of-hiding-it Arthur. 

As they rush to undo his restraints, Merlin mentally speaks to the dragon a final time; _ “We’ve rather thrown caution to the wind, don’t you think? Knowing Morgana, she’ll be plotting a coup at this point.” _

Morgana was in fact planning a coup. She’d managed to escape her duties in the kitchen, pleading concern for the King once word had spread that he was in the physician's quarters. Now she was engaging in silent conversation with Gauis while Uther ranted on about how ‘there was no way this was a heart attack, surely just the sorcerer’s curse, really, he was fighting fit’-gods he sounded like Arthur. But they had to keep him here, allow time for Merlin to be smuggled out of the city and avoid getting his stupid head chopped off. 

This would be an excellent time to get rid of the king, Morgana reasoned. Plenty of guards had seen Uther collapse and there was no shortage of witnesses at the feast who could attest that Uther was not in his right mind. He’d jailed their saving sorcerer for gods sake! The kitchens were already abuzz with rumors that the prince’s manservant had saved the lives of everyone at the feast, and if the kitchens knew, the whole city would know within hours.

If the Round Table made its move tonight-say with a vial of poison to the still shouting Uther- a few rumors could completely destroy his credibility, win his knights over to their side, and get Arthur on the throne with minimal fuss. The days of waiting were behind them, it was time to take action.

Morgana prepares to signal to Gauis, to make him aware of the changing plan and subtly ask him where he kept his poisons-

“I’m perfectly fine, now you will let me go! I have more pressing matters to attend to tonight!”

Gaius continues to push Uther back down onto a cot, trying to shove a potion down his throat. “Sire, more activity is not wise, your heart could give out again-”

“Damn my heart, it is more important to see that boy burned and his enchantments broken Gauis!” Gauis’ face turns to stone as he regards his old friend who is so callously condemning his son to death. 

Morgana steps between them, turning her voice to a simper “Perhaps I could oversee the preparations for the execution while you rest, my Lord.”

“I don’t need rest, not while that sorcerer lives! You will summon my knights here, Gauis will return my cloak, and the execution will take place immediately! Go!” He takes Morgana’s arm and shoves her towards the door.

She pulls away with a look of disgust on her face, “You should be more careful, my Lord,” she spits. “You wouldn’t want to hurt yourself.” With that, she leaves the room, whispering a spell under her breath to activate the agreed-upon signal. 

A flower blooms in a vase on Gauis’ windowsill, just out of Uther’s view. Gauis takes in the change, giving Morgana the tiniest of nods as she closes the door behind her. It could be taken for deference, but really it was a confirmation. Tonight, the Round Table would make its move for the throne of Camelot. By dawn, they’d be heroes or dead. 

Gauis grabs some vials, mixing their contents to make a noxious and poisonous liquid-it’ll restore the king’s energy for an hour or so, then kill him. He gives it to the king, “If you insist on activity, my Lord, at least drink this restorative.”

“If it’ll make you stop nagging.” In one swallow he downs the contents of the bottle, gagging on the bitter taste. Morgana lurking in the hallway outside smiles at the sounds of choking, then heads off to the barracks.

All of the knights are gathered in the common area, talking nervously and awaiting some form of instructions. The king incapacitated, Arthur confined to his rooms, burning a sorcerer they all knew….none of them would be sleeping tonight.

Gwen is already there, rubbing a wooden pendant with one hand while she quietly converses with the Round Table knights in a corner. The pendant is one of a set, all the members of the Round Table wearing one, and were enchanted to serve as signaling devices. Gauis had activated them, telling everyone that it was time to get to business.

“We’ll gather the castle staff, get them away from where any fighting will be -”

“Leon and Lancelot are still with Arthur, but we already know that Kay, Bevedeire, and Owaine are on our side, more might follow them-”

“The lads in the armory are on our side, the only weapons Uther’s men’ll have is whatever they’ve got right now, hopefully that means not much fighting.”

“Do you think we have a chance?”

“An excellent one. I’ll find the staff, make sure they’re all where they want to be. If they want to fight for us, who are we to say no?”

“You have the mind of a queen, Gwen.”

“Gwen laughs nervously, “No, just an armorer.”

“And a fine one at that” Morgana sweeps into the room. She winks at the Round Table knights conspiratorially, then turns her attention to the rest of the knights, all of whom are watching her in fascination. The King’s Ward in the knights quarters. They’re used to Gwen(as previously mentioned, most would have considered it an honor to perish in her defense), but Morgana Gorlois was another matter entirely. 

With the air of royalty, she speaks; “The king orders you all to his side to aid in the execution of a sorcerer. But,” and here she pauses, knowing there is no going back from what she is about to say next, “If there are any among you who would see an end to the burning of innocents, the end of tyranny and fear, the time to stand is now.” She spreads her arms wide, and the Round Table steps forward. Gwen, Elyan, Gwaine, and Percival first, then Bevediere, Kay, Owaine. 

“You speak treason!” A shout. A man named Roark, with fire in his eyes. “Magic shows it’s evil colors, and you would worsen the problem by rebelling against the king!”

“Like the king’s doing such a great job anyway, and magic’s helped you more than you know!” Gwaine crosses his arms, daring someone to challenge him.

“He’s right,” a knight who had been at the feast, Sir Caradoc, stands. “Magic saved my life tonight, and the life of everyone in that feast hall. We’d all be burned to death if not for Merlin-”

“At the hands of another sorcerer!”

“And what if that magic was on your side?” Elyan shouts. “Instead of hunting down innocents, using magic to capture true villains?”

Morgana continues, “You all love Camelot, all pledged allegiance to your King, your Prince, your knight captains, yet you won’t do what is necessary to save their lives. You battle magical beasts and mourn your casualties, the loss of your brothers-in-arms, but won’t condone the enchantments on your weapons that would allow you a fighting chance!” There’s a fire in Morgana’s eyes, and it’s not from magic. Standing with the knights, staring down the arguing factions, she looks every inch a queen. There’s silence. 

Then a knight steps forward, Sir Galahad. “I will join you.” Roark protests, spluttering out something about traitors, but Galahad takes his place next to the Round Table, quickly followed by Sir Caradoc.

“Sir Fennec!” Percival calls out. “You mourn your cousin Ulur, killed by a chimera, but perhaps if we did not share the king’s fear of magic he would have lived.”

“You want to overthrow Uther, but who would take his place? Arthur, who has led witch hunts? Your own hypocrisy will end you,” says a man named Stefan.

“Arthur has fought for magic, with magic, and will restore it to the land. I would not fight for him otherwise,” Gwen’s voice is calm, but her voice is steel. “With Arthur on the throne, no longer will innocents be punished for petty or false crimes.” And suddenly the entire assembly remembers her father, run through on Uther’s orders. Several knights can no longer look at her, staring at their boots and feeling the blood on their hands.

“None of us would ask this of you if we were not certain of ourselves. But at every turn, Uther’s ideals only harm us. Arthur, your First Knight, and those you see here have saved this kingdom with magic countless times, and he will be a fairer king than Uther could ever be. If you would see freedom, an end to not being expendable at the hands of Uther’s grudges and prejudices, then take a stand with us now.”

Then something incredible happens. Destiny shifts. Just a little so far, but it changes, it changes as knights cross the room to stand with the Round Table. Not all of them, not most, but enough. And they do not stand because they are forced, because they are ordered, because they are scared. That is not what the Round Table is about. 

They stand because they see their brothers-in-arms fighting for a just cause. They stand because they think of Arthur, and know that is the kind of man they want to follow. They stand because they see Morgana, remember her being forbidden from training with them as she got older, and think of their mothers and sisters and daughters who never even had a chance to try. They stand because they remember Lancelot, how he was shunned for his lack of noble blood. They stand because they see Gwen and think of all the innocents they put behind bars, and how most aren’t so lucky as to be standing here today. They stand because Gwaine’s a bloody good drinking partner, and they’d rather stand with a friend than fight for someone who doesn’t care about them. They stand because they are knights, and they are meant to represent the best of Camelot. They stand because perhaps it is time to put old grudges to rest.

And then there are two sides-not quite even, because some are still afraid, some do not understand that change is inevitable-each standing for their own ideal of Camelot. On one side is the rule of might and noble blood. The other is younger, bolder, and full of tables Round.

Morgana can feel the electricity in the air, the significance of this moment. The scene stretches, the Round Table standing righteous and angry, the old guard doing the same for different reasons. Then time speeds up again, reality setting in.

Roark shouts, “All those loyal to the King, follow me now, for the love of Camelot!”

“For the love of Camelot, members of the Round Table retreat!” The Table and it’s new allies run out the barracks door, slamming it shut behind them. The knights on the other side try to beat their way out, and it takes the Table’s combined strength to hold the doors closed. 

“Where’s the bloody key?” Gwaine shouts, leveraging himself against the door.

“Leon would have it!”

“Morgana!” The doors shudder with the force on them.

“What, Gwen?”

“Magic! Lock the doors!”

“Right!” Her eyes glow golden, and the tumblers of the lock suddenly fall into place, locking Uther’s knights in. They’re all breathing heavily, but Morgana’s wild smile has good company.

“Gwen, get the staff out of the way. Everyone else, to the armory. For Camelot!”

“For Camelot!” They raise their fists in the air before dashing down the castle halls.

And so, many things begin to happen all at once. 

The Round Table pillages the armory, gathering their weapons and donning armor, Morgana right in the thick of things. There’s a general cheer when Gwen arrives accompanied by a sizeable number of the castle staff. All were willing to raise a dagger or rolling pin against Uther for his mistreatment of the common people-though there were more than a few raising their fists less for hate of Uther and more for love of Guinevere who’d recruited them.

The king finally storms out of Gauis’ quarters, hopping mad and seeking out his knights, rightly assuming that Morgana has disobeyed him. As Uther leaves, Gauis palms his pendant, whispering a spell to send a warning to the rest of the Round Table that the king is on the move. Then he departs to the residences of Camelot’s nobility. It’s time to see who their allies truly are.

Merlin sags between Arthur and Lancelot as they limp out of the dungeon, still nauseous from the iron and his beating. Leon leads the way. As everyone’s pendants begin to heat, Lancelot and Leon meet Arthur’s eyes. Something is happening.

“Go,” Arthur says. “They need you more than we do if it comes to a fight. They’ll be in the armory, I’ll get him out of here.”

“But-”

“I’ll be fine Lance, ‘m not an invalid, just a bit dizzy.”

“You’re also covered in blood-” Lancelot begins, only to be interrupted by Leon.

“If you do need us, signal.” He grips his pendant.

“Will do, now get going!” Leon gives Arthur a look, one used many times over their years of fighting together, a ‘you are you’ll be alright?’ look. Arthur just nods, silently telling him that he’d rejoin the knights once Merlin was out of harm’s way. Leon knows better than to question Arthur’s protective streak, so he merely squeezes his prince’s shoulder before pulling Lancelot away and beginning to run full tilt towards the armory. As Arthur and Merlin continue their limp towards the stables, there’s a loud bang and then the sound of many stamping feet.

Uther had made his way to the barracks and freed his knights-of course the king had a key to his own barracks-who reported that the men meant to be guarding the dungeons had not been seen for quite awhile, as well the tiny fact that the King’s Ward appeared to be leading an uprising. Uther did not take this news well. Rightly assuming that Arthur had something to do with the situation in the dungeons, he dispatched a portion of his group to search for the disgraced prince. Then he begins to lead the rest in pursuit of Morgana’s little rebellion.

Arthur could hear the men in pursuit of them, and subtly tries to move the two of them faster. “Come on Merlin, don’t waste our time.” 

Merlin huffs out a laugh, “Oh, well you didn’t have to go through all this trouble just for me, Sire.”

“Damn right I didn’t, now keep moving.” Arthur pulls Merlin’s arm tighter around his own shoulder, bearing more of his weight. Merlin would never admit to being in pain, but he must be hurting more than he was letting on if they were moving this slowly. Arthur can still hear their pursuers, so he makes a decision. “We’ll cut through the courtyard, it’s quicker.” He needed to get Merlin out of here.

“Do I have a choice?”

“No.”

“Alright then.”

Within a few minutes, they’ve reached the courtyard, only to see the halfway-built pyre in it’s center. Two servants are building it, and Arthur’s face hardens. He draws his sword as best he can with Merlin leaning on him, “I’d stop what I was doing if I were you.”

“I would not, unless you want to join the ranks of traitors.” Arthur’s heart sinks as Uther emerges into the courtyard, knights on his heels. 

Merlin quickly touches his pendant, barely whispering the spell that will tell the rest of the Round Table they need help. Even that small amount of magic hurts, and he nearly falls over before Arthur catches him. His head his still bleeding.

Uther watches them, the bedraggled bloodied sorcerer and a desperate, angry man who vaguely resembles what he believes his son to be. “Why are you doing this Arthur?”

“I’ve already told you,” Arthur responds, raising his chin and gripping Merlin tighter.

“You think this is love?”

“It’s more than that,” Merlin speaks, it obviously paining him to do so. “This is your payment, Uther Pendragon. You cannot try to take magic’s freedom away without surrendering something in return. Your child will restore magic to the land-”

“He is no son of mine!” Uther screams, and Arthur reels as if he’s been struck. 

“You can’t mean that-”

“I do.” It looks as if it physically pains him, but the king spits out “There can be no place for magic in Camelot, neither for those who practice it or support it. If you side with this-” he gestures to Merlin, “You are no longer the prince of Camelot, no longer my son” 

Merlin looks to Arthur, expecting tears, outrage. But Arthur merely takes a deep shuddering breath and nods. He’s already made his choice. “Then you are not my father.” Something about this feels irrevocable, unchangeable, but it’s over before Merlin can blink.

“So be it. You’ll burn too.”

“No one will be burning tonight except you Uther, in the flames of Hell!” And there’s Morgana, charging into the courtyard, sword drawn and accompanied by the Round Table. Never let it be said that Pendragons don’t know how to make an entrance.

“Alright ladies and men,” Gwen had begun a few minutes earlier, addressing the gathered traitors in the armory. “I know you’re all armed and enthusiastic, but remember we’re trying to keep the casualties low. No killing unless your own life is in danger. Then, give them hell. As for strategy, we know Uther will be heading towards the barracks. Gauis has already dosed him with the poison, but that won’t set in for another hour at least, so we have to keep his forces distracted until then. If we station ourselves throughout the main corridors, with special attention to the areas near the throne room and here, then-” She stops as her pendant, and everyone else’s, begin to burn. “Morgana, where are they?”

Morgana reaches out with her magic, feels the bright magical spark that is Merlin. “They’re in the courtyard, and ...afraid. Uther moved faster than we thought.”

“We move now!” Gwaine shouts, already halfway out the door in defense of his friend. “For Camelot!”

“For Camelot!” They chorus, and then they’re off, just in time to make a dramatic entrance.

So now there are dozens of people in the courtyard, all filled with righteous anger for varying reasons and raising their weapons against the backdrop of a half-built pyre. “You’ll all burn!” Uther is red and raging, drawing his sword at pointing it at the man who had once been his son. “Grab them!”

“Knights of the Round Table, advance!” And the forces clash in the middle of Camelot castle; sword against sword, fist against fist, the occasional rolling pin against heads. Morgana heads straight for Uther, looking like a Fury as she makes her first strike. 

A small group of Uther’s knights heads towards Arthur and Merlin, half-isolated as they are on the opposite side of the courtyard. “Merlin-” Arthur is about to tell him to start running as best he can, because their allies are heading towards them, but they won’t get here quick enough-

“I’m not leaving, you great dolt, just...wait-” He closes his eyes, looking like he’s having a very annoying conversation in his head. 

“Merlin…” Arthur drags them behind a pillar, wondering how much time he can buy Merlin with one against five-

“Turn around!” Merlin’s eyes snap open. “Arthur, run, I have a plan!”

“I thought we didn’t let Merlin make the plans!” Percival shouts mid-fight. 

“Trust me!”

“Leon, cover us!” Arthur then gives up on all attempts to spare Merlin’s dignity, sweeping him off his feet and running as fast as he can, Uther’s men in pursuit. 

“Towards the dungeons!” Merlin shouts, looking as if he might be sick with all the jostling.

“Yes, shout so they know where we’re going!” Arthur huffs as he turns a corner. “Why are we going back down there!”

“Our secret weapon is there!”

“What?”

“We need the knights off our backs, something to turn the tide, we need firepower-”

“You don’t mean…”

“The dragon.”

“This is why we don’t let you make the plans!” But it was too late to turn back now, Arthur was already thundering down the impossibly long staircase that went past the dungeons, past the vaults. They were entering the dragon’s lair, currently occupied by a right pissed dragon.

“Young warlock!” He thundered, no longer speaking only in Merlin’s head. “Look what you've done! Your king has surrendered his throne-”

“Oh shut it Kilgharrah, we’re here to free you!”

The dragon’s temper vanishes almost instantly. “In exchange for what?”

“The end of Uther’s reign and a promise of no retaliation from you once you have your freedom”

“And what say you, young Pendragon? But then again, what power do you have now, no-longer-your-father’s-son? You can promise me nothing,” Kilgharrah coos.

“What do you know of that?” Arthur snaps.

“I know many things, Pen-who-has-stolen-my-name.”

“Stop it! We’re in a bit of a time crunch here, so stop bugging my husband and bring your chain up here!”

“You think you can break the enchantments, weakened as you are?”

“We’ll see.”

“Merlin, you can barely stand-”

“Your sword.” Merlin disentangles himself from Arthur, precariously standing on his own. He holds out his arm for Excalibur. He will not be swayed in this, service to his king.

Arthur gently hands him the sword, and Merlin begins chanting. His eyes turn golden, and a nimbus of matching color grows around the sword. It the glow grows, burning brighter than the sun, and Arthur has to look away for fear of being blinded. He looks to Merlin-no, _ Emrys. _In this moment, as his power swirls in his golden eyes, there is only Emrys. The light grows too bright to bear, then fades back into the cold metal; Emrys’ eyes are still gold as he turns to Kilgharrah, ordering him in an ancient language to give them protection. 

With an air of reverence, he hands the sword to Arthur. “Swing once, my king.”

Arthur nods, taking the sword as Kilgharrah offers his chained leg. One blow against the giant manacles, a blast of golden light, and then the dragon is free.

“Fulfill what you have been commanded, Kilgharrah,” Emrys intones. Then Merlin collapses, golden light abandoning him.

“Merlin!” Arthur shouts, falling down beside him. He’s out cold, brow heated and barely breathing. His head wounds begin to bleed again.

“He has expended too much of his magic,”Kilgharrah says solemnly. “A lesser sorcerer would have died breaking the enchantments on my prison-”

Arthur raises his head, “He did this to himself to free you and all you can say is that he should be dead?”

“He did it to protect Camelot, to protect you! Even now your pursuers draw closer to my lair-”

“What has he done?”

“He tapped into his life force to summon the required energy. He is between life and death as we speak. But so does the fate of your kingdom-”

“Help him!”

“I owe you nothing! My Lord has only commanded me to aid your little rebellion, tiny prince. Why should I aid a son of my captor, who has doomed his coin to darkness?”

“You will get him to safety, or I will end you myself!” Arthur draws his sword, desperation written into his very soul. He’s come so close to losing Merlin far too many times tonight. They haven’t made it this far to only make it this far. They’re going to get out of this alive, they have to.

“Strong words.”

“I will give you whatever is in my power to give, please!”

“You have nothing left to give that you have not already surrendered tonight. You no longer interest me,” Kilgharrah stretches out his wings, takes a few experimental flaps.

“You would leave your Emrys? I thought you cared for prophecy?”

“That is why I must see how it plays out, I will fulfill my command then find my freedom. Your broken Destiny is in your own hands.” The echoes of Uther’s men reverberated down the stairs, and Kilgharrah promptly decided that those would be his last words to the young Pendragon. He prepared to fly away, taking in the final sight of his Dragonlord being picked up by someone who would have once been king. Uther’s knights reached the bottom of the stairs, swords drawn and mouths open wide at the sight of a dragon.

Then the Pendragon did something entirely unexpected and incredibly stupid. As Kilgharrah turned around and took off, the Pendragon _ jumped on his back _ and immediately set about tying the Dragonlord to one of his spines even as they rose into the air. 

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” Kilgharrah raged, heading straight for the roof of the cavern.

“Taking destiny into my own hands.” Arthur responds. Kilgharrah blasts through the roof.

In the courtyard, the battle is raging on. No casualties yet, but some injuries on both sides. Gwen is double-wielding daggers, darting into the middle of fights and attacking already distracted men. It’s a wickedly good time, and she understands why some knights enjoy battle so much now. Suddenly the ground shakes. There’s a noise like an avalanche, and then the impossible. For the first time in twenty-five years, a dragon spreads its wings over Camelot. Everything is still for a moment.

As Gwen looks up, she can see the figures perched on the dragon’s back. “They’re mad!” There’s a smile on her face as she says it though.

The dragon roars as it sweeps into the courtyard, “You were wrong, little prince, your companions have no need of my help. But I shall fulfill my command.” Fire blasts from his maw, incinerating the pyre and causing the more cowardly to flee. The dragon laughs, if a thing caused by so much destruction can be called a laugh. 

Morgana notices very little of this, locked in battle with Uther. Damn the poison, she wants to kill him herself for all the pain he’s put her family through. A few strikes has him backed against the wall, him seemingly surprised at her skill, or maybe just furious at her rebellion. He matches her blow for blow, however, her fury no real match for his years of battle. 

Uther stands his ground until a stray glance reveals who is riding on the dragon’s back. He screams to his men, “Shoot them down!”, tearing his eyes off Morgana for vital seconds. This is his undoing. She leaps through his guard, striking at his legs with vicious slashing movements. Uther falls to his knees, gasping in pain, and she disarms him easily. Morgana’s world narrows to the king at her feet. There’s a terrible sort of smile on her face, the flush of victory and vengeance as she holds the sword to Uther’s throat.

He looks up at her, shocked. Then he smirks. “You’d kill your own father?”

If Morgana hadn’t known she was absolutely rubbish at time manipulation spells, she would have said that the world stopped spinning right then. “What?” A single breath.

“You see, Gorlois was my friend, but I was rather closer to Vivienne-”

“You bastard!” Morgana pushes the sword into the meat of Uther’s neck, watches the blood flow down.

“No, that would be you my dear. But with them dead, and Arthur soon to follow, I’m your only family.” He says it so coldly, like he hasn’t condemned his own son to death. He is on his knees, but you’d think he was on the throne from his expression. He believes Morgana will not kill him.

He is wrong.

Morgana is a mess of sweat and anger now, but her voice is steady as she steps closer to Uther, She throws her sword aside. Uther still believes he will live, and smirks, believing his daughter to be defenseless.

“You are not my family Uther. But now,” she stares at him dead on, raising her arms and calling her magic, “You are the only one standing between me and the throne. There’s a deadly, poisonous smile, and burning-ember eyes. A sword picks itself up off the ground, reflects Uther’s terrified eyes in the steel, and impales him right through where most people would have a heart.

The King is dead. Long live the Queen.

(Of course, everyone is too distracted by battle and a dragon to notice the finer details of this scene. This is what the narrator is here for. When Kilgharrah attacked the courtyard, it wasn’t long before he heard the command, “Shoot them down!”. Wisely, he chose this time to make his exit, deciding he’d worry about his passengers later. This hasty departure caused the three of them to miss Morgana’s ascension to the throne through patricide. Busy as they were with escape and unconsciousness, they also failed to realize that five of Uther’s knights were in mounted pursuit of them as they left the citadel. These knights had also missed Morgana’s ascension, and therefore were still operating under Uther’s last orders to apprehend and kill the sorcerer and his once-royal accomplice. So that’s a complication; eventually Kilgharrah is going to put Arthur and Merlin down, and then they’ll have mounted knights after them…

In Camelot, the chaos is still cooling down. The Round Table had no plans for this turn of events, but they figured they could make this work. It had to work. By all the laws of the land, Arthur was no longer a candidate for the throne; disowned and younger than Morgana, not to mention currently unreachable on dragonback somewhere, he could never be king.

Morgana would be lying if she said she wasn’t pleased by this turn of events. It was about time she wore a crown, and apparently she was owed one anyway. In the wee hours of the morning, all of Camelot was roused to witness the coronation of their queen, and for an event thrown together in a few hours with many of the attendants still in their sleep clothes, it was surprisingly elegant. Morgana smiled as they placed the crown on her head.

So the strands of Destiny were rather tangled and hanging loose at the moment, mostly courtesy of the Pendragon siblings. Arthur was never meant to leave Camelot. Morgana was never meant to be knelt to by the knights of _ her _ round table. But then again, some people are just born to be Queen.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I live for comments, scream about this with me, I fangirled while writing it.  
LONG LIVE THE QUEEN  
(Also, I wrote the last half of this exclusively while listening to The Gaslight Anthem, which is weird because those songs give me SPN/I'm from Jersey, Bitch! vibes, but hey, whatever works. So go listen to The Gaslight Anthem right now, you're welcome)


	3. The Look On Your Face

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!!!!! 
> 
> Okay, so the support I've gotten on this story is insane(and I love how outraged some of you are) so I may have been inspired to expand the story and include a few things I might have left out otherwise.  
This means that what would have been the last chapter is being chopped up into three parts, this being the first.
> 
> Good news is 1)basically everything is written and will be up ASAP  
2)I have more time to write now, because GUESS WHO FINALLY FINISHED ALL THEIR COLLEGE APPS AND GOT IN!  
I'M GOING TO COLLEGE BABES!  
(yeah, I'm happy)
> 
> Shout out to everyone who screamed at me about Arthur not being king.....the next few chapters are going to be one hell of a ride for you.
> 
> And to the person who said, and I quote "HOLY SHIT THAT WAS AWESOME. THE NARRATIVE AND...AND THE MERTHUR AND...AND LESBIANS." I BLAME YOU FOR MAKING ME WANT TO ADD MORE CHAPTERS TO THIS(but not in a bad way, don't take this as mad screaming, its happy screaming)(and yes the lesbians will feature in chapter four)
> 
> And thanks as always to my beloved beta who puts up with my brainstorming sessions and sends me ridiculous memes and cat pictures

“You’re insane!” Even as he says it, Arthur can feel the painful irony of his statement. He-the now disowned, exiled, and probably hunted ex-prince of Camelot-is yelling at the dragon he happens to be riding as they soar through the clouds, an unconscious warlock sitting in front of him. He’s definitely gone mad. The events of the last few hours are all a blur-the fighting, the screaming, Merlin commanding a dragon for gods’ sakes-and it’s almost simpler to believe that this is all a very intense dream and attempt to enjoy the view. 

Then the dragon laughs at him. Kilgharrah is drunk on freedom and adrenaline and in a horribly good mood that is not at all infectious. Everything amuses him, especially Arthur’s current situation. 

“You call me mad, small one, but look at yourself. You’re finding that dragons are not merely decorations for cloaks, are they?” Kilgharrah erupts into roaring laughter once more, and Arthur scowls.

“Yes, I see the irony  _ thank you very much _ ! Now can you please stop flying like a madman?”

“And why would I do that?” Kilgharrah responds cheekily. Arthur wonders if dragons can smirk. He then proceeds to wonder if he would die before he hit the ground as Kilgharrah begins a loop-de-loop, putting him and Merlin in imminent danger of falling. The dragon is roaring with joy.

“So you don’t kill those who freed you! You wouldn’t resort to murder to avoid your debts!”

Kilgharrah responds by doing a barrel roll, and Arthur will deny to his dying day what happened next. He screamed. Kilgharrah continues spinning, and Merlin is beginning to slip out of Arthur’s grasp while the dammed dragon only laughs. 

“STOP!” He orders, trying to mimic the Dragonlord tongue that Merlin uses, but to no avail. “Please!”

“I never thought I’d see the day when a Pendragon would beg a boon of me.”

“Get over yourself, it’s not a boon. You’re not allowed to harm your Dragonlord, are you?” Arthur desperately hopes there’s some kind of rule against that, some way he can gain a little control over the situation.

The dragon growls. “You are correct…” 

“Then put us down! You have your freedom, let us keep our lives and we’ll be even!”

The dragon considers this, blowing smoke rings that leave Arthur coughing. The smoke makes Merlin begin coughing as well, rousing him as he nearly hacks up a lung. 

“Merlin!” Arthur wants to make sure he’s okay, but Merlin ignores him, swatting his arm-still coughing-and turning towards Kilgharrah’s head.

“Ο Drakon,” he begins groggily, speaking in an ancient tongue and entering into what Arthur can only assume is an argument with the insane dragon. His eyes glow gold. It looks as if he's ready to set the world on fire. “ Σταματήστε να είσαι κώλο Κάνε το ρολό μας το σπαθί τα παραμένει εκτός λάθος τα είστε ελεύθερη είσαι τώρα βάλτε μας ή των διατάξεων ΑΠΕ τάζετε to Ανατολή.” 

“Η Alitalia αρέσουν βιοτικό!” Kilgharrah huffs, obviously not pleased.

“Σας διατάζω να μην γεωπόνοι ΕΤΕ Οπότε για να απελευθερώσετε θα σας καλέσω να παίξετε στον τόπο που πάνε Σωτηρία”

“Sii σκληρός kypros θα σε θαυμάσω αν δεν το έβρισκα” 

“Ορκίζομαι Μα να μην τηλέφωνο Σουζάνα αλλά πρέπει να φύγετε ειρηνικά και εκδίκηση από τον cabit η Canon mesecina του προσπάθεια Arthur”

“Ούτε κανένα danke άμα” 

“ κότσι”

“ πρόστιμο”

“ Σας καλώ επίσης να φας φέρε και την παρακαλάει Να Μας αφήσατε η ελληνικά” 

“CAN SOMEBODY SPEAK BLOODY ENGLISH!” Arthur bursts out. “Is the dragon going to eat us or not?”

“Not today-”

“Not ever, Kilgharrah!” Merlin snaps. “You’re going to put us down, leave us in peace, and then I’m going to take a nap somewhere for a very long time.” He turns around, eyes fading back to blue as he looks at Arthur. “Arthur, I think I’m about to-” Merlin almost falls off the dragon as he suddenly passes out again, leaving Arthur scrambling to hold him still.

“Why is this affecting him so much?” Arthur knew little about magic, but he knew that what Merlin had been doing tonight should not have been enough to knock him unconscious twice, even taking into account the time he’d spent chained. The worst of the iron sickness should have been worn off by now. Merlin should be getting better, not worse. 

“I have my suspicions,” Kilgharrah grumbles as he begins to circle for a landing. “But none I am required to share with you,  _ Arthur _ .” He says the name like it’s a disease.

“What happened to Pendragon or little prince?” Arthur snaps. 

“That’s not who you are anymore. You’ve lost something through your freedom, just like me, just like Merlin in your arms. Nothing good awaits those who forsake Destiny.” Kilgharrah touches down surprisingly lightly for a beast his size, and Arthur lowers himself and Merlin to the ground.

“Would it kill you to answer a question for once?”

“Possibly-”

“I’m not done! You tell us we have a destiny, then make everything as difficult and confusing as possible, while we’re fleeing for our lives, mind you-”

“Who says you have a destiny anymore?” Kilgharrah purrs, and Arthur is struck dumb as the dragon lowers himself to his eye level. “You’re just as mortal as anyone else now, He-who-was-Once-the-Future-King.” He raises himself up again, observing the dawn sky. “Oh, and you’re being followed.” The dragon takes off with no further ceremony, leaving Arthur in the middle of the woods with nothing but a sword and an unconscious warlock.

He curses at the sky long after the dragon has flown out of sight.  _ Great _ . He thinks. This is fantastic. They’re miles from Camelot in a place he doesn’t recognize with no supplies to speak of, one weapon, no horses, a certainly unfriendly pursuit, and something is wrong with Merlin. 

He swears a bit more.

Finally, he takes a deep breath.  _ Okay. _ The first step back home is figuring out where they are. Then he can make a real plan. He’s sure to find a river or a road or something recognizable if he just walks awhile. That just leaves...Merlin, curled up in a pile of leaves and snoring softly.

“You’re lucky I love you,” Arthur mumbles as he swings his warlock over his shoulder, grunting slightly at the effort. Deciding to head north-partially because he hopes they’re near the Hafren River, partially because the dragon went south and he wants to stay as far away from the lizard as possible- he murmurs a quick prayer and heads off.

It takes several hours for Merlin to wake up, stirring as Arthur drinks from a river. He doesn’t recognize this stretch of it, but with any luck this is the southern stretch of the Hafren. Islington, a town Arthur knew from patrols, could be within a day’s walk. The area was full of rabbits, he could set up a snare and gather some pelts and meat to trade for lodging-

“Where’s the dragon?” Merlin rejoins the land of the living with a jolt. Arthur rinses his hands and sits next to him.

“Nice of you to finally wake up,  _ Mer _ lin. You’re about three hours too late to yell at that scaly lump. He left, presumably to do whatever you told him to, but I wouldn’t doubt him helping our pursuers, because guess what? According to the demon lizard, we’re being followed! This is shaping up to be a fantastic morning, gods it’s  _ morning _ , I haven’t slept since yesterday-”

“We should rest here then.” 

“ _ We _ ?” Arthur raises his eyebrows, mortally offended by the implication that Merlin might need rest. “You’ve practically had a full night’s sleep!”

“I was  _ unconscious _ , you great prat!”

“I carried you!”

“I made sure the damn dragon didn’t eat you!” 

“That should not be the standard for aid-”

“Again,  _ I was unconscious _ . And Kilgharrah can be a bit of a bastard when he wants to be. He would have eaten you-”

“Yes, I get it.” Arthur proceeds to grumble for quite awhile after that, but in the way that means Merlin’s won the argument because Arthur has no good response. He decides to change the subject. “Can you walk?”

“I think so. My magic, though…” Merlin trails off, inspecting his hands critically as if the cuts on his knuckles will reveal the secrets of the universe.

“What’s wrong?” The question feels ridiculous in his mouth. What isn’t wrong right now? But he focuses on Merlin, grabbing his hands to stop the relentless fidgeting. 

“My magic…..it shouldn’t be like this. I should be able to do more without….”

“Without what?”

“It’s like I can’t channel the power anymore. I know what I’m trying to do, but I’m not...is this what Morgana feels like? She knows the spells but the power just won’t come?”

“You’re losing your power?”

“It seems like it.” Merlin sounds terrified, but they remain silent as they mull over this new information. Arthur laces their fingers, scared that Merlin will cast a spell he won’t wake up from. They’ve seen what can happen to sorcerers that try to channel too much magic. There’s very little left of them afterwards to regret overstretching their powers. It’s easy to do, especially when Merlin is used to having near limitless power at his command-

“I can hear you thinking.” Merlin nudges Arthur’s shoulder. 

“You can’t.”

“Just focus on getting home. We can worry about the magic later.”

“And if you do something stupid in the interim, as you’re very likely to do?”

“We’ll figure that out too. Now,” Merlin claps his hands together, and a change comes over his face as he forces cheerfulness, “Where are we?”

Arthur decides they’ll pick up this argument later. “I figure a few hours ride from Islington. Walking, we might be there by dusk.”

“Not if you’re dead on your feet. You rest for a bit, I’ll keep watch.”

“That’s the best suggestion you’ve made in days.”

“Shut it,” Merlin mutters affectionally as Arthur shucks off his armor and tries to get comfy on the ground. 

“You shut it,” Arthur teases back before closing his eyes. 

It feels like a second later that he hears Merlin shouting “Arthur!”, accompanied by the sound of an explosion. His eyes snap open, hand flying to the sword at his waist. Through the faint golden shine of a protective shield, he can see three men on horseback circling Merlin with swords drawn; the only thing keeping them back are the golden flames dancing across Merlin’s palms. They’re wearing Pendragon red. 

A cold spike of fear enters Arthur’s heart: what has happened to his family in Camelot to result in soldiers being sent to kill him and Merlin? He shuts down that line of thinking quickly as one of the riders gets far too close to his warlock, sword barely inches away from Merlin’s arm. But Merlin doesn’t attack, merely stares his enemy down, waving his flames when they get too close. It occurs to Arthur that this may be all that Merlin is able to do. With his magic weakened, he may not be able to attack.

“I’ve got the leader!” he shouts, jumping into the fray and pushing Merlin behind him. He slashes at the flanks of the nearest horse, and she rears, unseating her rider. Arthur makes sure he stays down with a blow to the head. 

Behind him, Merlin shouts a spell that fells a tree branch onto another rider’s head, knocking the man unconscious. Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur sees the man hit the ground. The third rider decides to dismount willingly, advancing on Arthur with his sword raised. Merlin sends a fireball towards the combatants, but misses wildly as he sways on his feet. He stares at his hands as if they have betrayed him, the fire that had covered them vanishing. He falls to his knees, clearly fighting to stay conscious.

Arthur’s opponent takes advantage of his momentary distraction to strike at his unprotected arm. Arthur doesn’t dodge quickly enough, and the blade bites into his upper arm, and he falls back, hissing in pain. Another blow lands on his wrist, mostly blocked by the crossguard, but still enough to draw blood. Arthur draws back before rushing forwards, aiming to get under the man’s guard. A feint, then another, then a solid hit to the meat of his enemy’s thigh. The man hunches over, cursing furiously. He raises his blade for a high strike, but Arthur blocks it, and there’s a fantastic ringing sound as their blades meet. 

\-----

Merlin watches as the swords cross. Everything aches inside of him. The magic he’s been accustomed to all his life, the power he’s had to constantly keep in check, is leaking away. A few basic spells have him practically gasping for air as he watches Arthur battle, suddenly aware of how defenseless he is. His king is fighting, and here he is, unable to help. He tries to stand, but the ground pulls him down again, head spinning.

It almost seems like a hallucination when a body rises from the forest floor. The man Merlin had assumed to be unconscious is standing, grabbing his sword and racing towards Arthur. He obviously doesn’t see the struggling warlock as a threat. His mistake.

Merlin raises his hand, summoning a faint ball of light and shooting it towards the soldier. It annoys more than hurts him, and he doesn’t even turn around. Merlin grits his teeth, trying to summon more power. He chants a fragment of a spell, summoning another pulse of energy, but a pain shoots through his head and the spell is weaker than the first. The soldier is still unharmed, but the spell achieved one thing;

“That’s it, you bastard!” the man shouts as he abandons his original goal, rounding on Merlin. Merlin manages to release a few more weak blasts of energy, none of which stop the soldier. 

Still, he taunts, “Come and get me, you coward!” 

He never did have much of a self-preservation instinct.

\-----

The man’s good, Arthur will give him that. In a simpler world, he would have met him for knight training instead of this desperate fight. A block, then another, then a quick slash to the man’s belly. He narrowly misses another cut to his arm-

An unearthly cry born of pain and magic rips the world apart. Arthur ignores every piece of swordfighting advice he’s ever been given as he turns away from his opponent to see what has happened. Every possible horrible scenario runs through his head as the world slows around him. The reality is worse:

His opponent’s sword is mid-air, as is the man he’d thought to be unconscious, flung away from Merlin by the power of a shockingly blue spell; Merlin is on the ground with a sword in his back. He’s not moving. 

The world speeds up again. Arthur barely manages to block an aggressive strike to his neck, only muscle memory and adrenaline keeping him alive for those few seconds. Then he grits his teeth, ducks low to the ground, and strikes at his enemy’s knees. He can feel his blade cutting through the thick cords of muscle as he springs up again to deliver a vicious kick to the wound he’s just inflicted. The man falls forward; Arthur darts behind him and slices through the tendons on his ankles for good measure. He’s much quicker at dealing with the man Merlin sent flying, the one who put a sword through his warlock’s back. Arthur stabs him through the throat, not bothering to watch the life leave his eyes. He may have been dead already.

Merlin is gasping as Arthur kneels beside him; he fears for a moment that Merlin’s lungs have been pierced, but no, he’s just trying to manage the pain. The sword has gone clean through his body, and Arthur whispers reassurances as he gently removes it. Merlin has his arm in a white-knuckle grip, breathing through his nose. Finally the sword is out, and Arthur casts it aside to inspect the wound. From the smell of bile, it seems Merlin’s stomach has been impaled, or possibly his liver. Neither bode well unless Arthur can get him to a healer quickly. 

“ ‘M not healing,” Merlin murmurs.

“Put your hands on that,” Arthur orders, ignoring him as he grabs the cape of a fallen soldier, ripping it into red bandages. “Can you sit up?” Merlin nods, and Arthur begins binding the wound.

“It’s almost gone. Arthur-”

“What’s gone?”

“My magic is, or nearly is. All of it that’s important anyway. It’s leaking, leaving-OWWWW!”

“Sorry, sorry,” Arthur loosens a few of the bandages as Merlin hisses. 

“You need to work on your bedside manner,” Merlin pants out.

“Don’t change the subject. How do you know that your magic’s leaving?”

“I’m not healing,” Merlin says simply. “The magic, it usually helps when things get bad. Fixes difficult things, keeps me from dying-”

“You’re not dying,” Arthur declares. “I forbid it.”

“I don’t think you get a say in the matter,” Merlin says solemnly as Arthur ties the last of the makeshift bandages. Arthur says nothing, and Merlin sighs. “Arthur-”

“The horses! Stay here!” Arthur springs up, intending to grab one of the soldier’s horses to speed their travel.

“Like I’m going anywhere,” Merlin groans as he attempts to pull himself properly upright, groaning as the motion pulls on his wound.

“I said stay still!” Arthur shouts, trying to grab a horse’s reins. It whinnies and shies away, obviously not trusting the man who killed her rider. 

“Έλα,” Merlin whispers, eyes flashing gold. The horse suddenly becomes much more amicable, trotting over to Merlin with no protest as Arthur watches.

“I thought you said your magic-”

“I’m not useless.”

“I never said you were-”

“Then stop looking at me like that! Stop treating me like I’ll break-”

“Merlin you’ve been  _ stabbed _ .” Merlin makes the face that means Arthur’s won the argument, even if Merlin will never admit it. Arthur presses on, rearranging the horse’s saddlebags so they can both sit on it. There’s no way Merlin will be able to ride on his own. Arthur presses on, hopelessly pragmatic so he can avoid losing hope, “Camelot is not an option, it’s too far away and likely dangerous if men were sent after us-”

“I could scry to see if everyone’s okay-”

“No! No unnecessary magic! If you knock yourself out again, so help me-”

“Fine! But this means wherever we go, we’re going in blind.”

“We’ll also be going in peacefully, our priority is finding you a healer. Islington’s our best bet, with the horse we could be there by mid-afternoon.”

“Any chance there’s bandages in that saddle bag?”

Arthur does a quick check, finding a water skin, some bread, and a spare dagger, but no bandages. “Will you be okay?”

“I’ll have to be.” Merlin adjusts some of his makeshift bandages, already stained through.

The bleeding has barely slowed. Arthur doesn’t like the look of that wound at all. This is the kind of thing that kills a man slowly and painfully as his stomach juices eat him from the inside out. And even if Arthur’s wrong, if Merlin’s stomach hasn’t been pierced, there was still infection to worry about, not to mention the very immediate danger that he could die from blood loss. Or stupidity. Stupidity like trying to stand up-

“Stay still, you idiot! I’ll help you onto the horse.”

“Arthur, I’ve seen wounds like this before, moving won’t make much of a difference either way.”

“Don’t talk like that, we’ll find you help.” Merlin stays silent, and Arthur’s heart sinks. “No.”

“No what?”

“No, you are not going to accept death, understand? I don’t care what you know or heard or-I don’t care about what should be, I just need you to live.” (Many miles away, a chill goes up Kilgharrah’s spine as Destiny continues to be torn apart and spit upon) “Why do you have to make everything difficult?”

“It’s my destiny I suppose,” Merlin says resignedly. 

“Why do you and that dragon care so much about blasted Destiny?” Arthur shouts.

“There’s a prophecy-”

“That’s nearly killed us a hundred times over!”

“You’re the Once and Future King, that’s not going to happen easily!” Merlin’s enraged now as everything he’s devoted his life to is changing into something completely different. 

“It’s not going to happen at all! In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been disowned! We’re miles from Camelot and likely exiled, that’s not exactly a recipe for the throne!”

“You can’t give up now!”

“I’m not giving up, I’m saying no more! I will no longer be a pawn in some vague and terrible destiny, I want to live my own life, with you in it preferably-”

“I can’t-”

“Why? Why must you listen to murmurs of destiny and the whispers of crazy dragons instead of living?”

“Because I have nothing else!” Merlin takes a ragged breath. “Without this prophecy, I’m just someone too powerful for my own good who gets everyone I love killed. Without our Destiny, I am nothing!”

“So you’d rather die for destiny than live as a free man, a man who most certainly has something? Who has so many people who love him?”

Silence.

“I’m afraid, Arthur.” Merlin can’t catch his breath, and Arthur can’t tell if it’s from emotion or pain. “I can’t abandon Destiny and leave everyone to it’s mercy. I can’t lose my friends. I can’t lose you.” 

“Merlin,” Arthur says gently, kneeling beside him. “You will never lose me. Even if the world burns, you will always have me.” He kisses him softly, pulling him into a gentle embrace.

“What’s going to happen to us?” Merlin whispers against Arthur’s chest. 

“Well, first we’re going to find you a healer. Then...we’ll figure it out.”

A weak chuckle. “Whatever you say, my lord.”

“Merlin, I am no longer a lord.”

“No, but you are still my king, and always will be.”

“Thank you,” Arthur takes this devotion in stride, even if it terrifies him to his very core, the lengths Merlin will go to for him. Arthur will always do the same and more, but there is still something so grand and horrible about being someone’s reason for living.

They say nothing for awhile, trying to wrap their heads around this new reality, but eventually Arthur gently pulls Merlin upright. “Come on, we have to start moving.” Amid subdued protest, Arthur arranges Merlin on the horse and climbs on behind him. The bleeding has yet to slow, but Arthur tries to damp down his worry. Merlin will be okay. He has to be.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rough Translation of Merlin's Conversation with Kilgharrah:  
"Stop being an ass, we've done our part. The sword will be kept out of the wrong hands and you'll be free so now put us down or I'll command you to fly all the way to the East!"  
"The East likes dragons you insolent bastard"  
"I command you to never imply such things about my parents ever again and if you don't release us, I'll command you to fly to the place you find most awful."  
"You are cruel and clever. I'd admire you if I didn't hate your guts."  
"I swear I won't call you again but you have to leave in peace no attacking cities or towns or Camelot or trying to eat Arthur."  
"Not even one bite?"  
"No."  
"Fine"  
"Okay then I officially command you to bring us to safety not use your freedom to harm others unless they intend to harm you. And just stay away from Camelot."  
"Done."
> 
> Also, I typed this up while listening to Green Day, so if you like Punk Rock, your music suggestion for today is Homecoming.  
(Apparently rock music helps me write)


	4. The Mountains We Moved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *TV announcer voice* We interrupt your regularly scheduled Merthur programming to give you the Queen of Camelot being a big ol' lesbian for her best friend.
> 
> Okay, that's not the main point of this chapter, but it is about love and choice and something new and better growing out of the old.
> 
> Or, what happened in Camelot after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, shout out to my wonderful glorious beta Jess-Babe, you save my life, please don't plagairize me, I'm posting this like I said I would! (Kidding, mostly)
> 
> And thank to to all you lovely readers out there for sticking with me through this story(I'm sorry to leave you on a cliffhanger, but we're in the home stretch now!)

Dragonsbane becomes the name of the battle that saw the death and disappearance of the last of two lines of dragons. In the aftermath, Morgana is crowned Sorceress-Queen of Camelot, Uther’s corpse is burned and Arthur remains missing.

There has not been a Sorceress-Queen in nearly two centuries, not since long before Old Camelot had fractured into warring fiefdoms later reunited by a young Uther. People are nervous. Not the common people, no. They are glad to see the cruel king go, hoping that the new Queen will be kinder; it is the nobility, those who had grown up under and benefited from Uther’s rule that regard Morgana with fear and suspicion. They cannot fathom that she will be any better than the man she deposed, that anything can ever change. She intends to prove them wrong.

Morgana holds her first council meeting the day after she is crowned, summoning every able lord into what had been Uther’s council room and is now hers. It is strange to have something that is wholly hers, not vulnerable to being taken away on a whim. For once in her life, she is in control. She stands before the members of both the noble council and the Round Table, ready to right some long-standing wrongs and feeling like she could conquer the world. Then she is spit on. 

It drips down her cheek, wet and warm and utterly disgusting. The weight of her silver crown seems to be mocking her. Everyone is staring.

“Filthy witch,” the perpetrator, a Lord Argas, condemns. Before Morgana can say a word, Gwaine-overprotective of his friends to the last-has his sword to the man’s throat.

“See, now what part of you thought that was a good idea?” Gwaine growls menacingly, and Morgana is touched by his violent devotion. “That’s my Queen right there, yours too. So let’s see if you can’t be civil.” He shoves Lord Argas backwards, leaving the man pale-faced and shaking. Gwaine sheaths his sword, then gestures towards Morgana as the lords begin murmuring amongst themselves. “If you would begin, my Queen.”

Morgana recollects herself, wiping her cheek. “Thank you Sir Gwaine-”

Lord Argas recovers his senses, “Is this the kind of kingdom you will run? One where lords are threatened for speaking their minds?”

“ _ No _ , but I will not tolerate disrespect-”

“And you have earned our respect?” another lord interrupts. “What have you done besides destroying a ruling bloodline and putting yourself in their place?”

They’re all so  _ petty _ , Morgana thinks. She raises her voice; “What have you done besides sit there on your ass while hundreds of people suffered? All of us must earn our respect, and we cannot do that if we refuse to listen to each other civilly!” She could scream, she could  _ burn _ them-

“He held a sword to a man’s throat!”

“He spat on her!” Gwaine shouts, marching forward and preparing to unsheathe his sword again. Leon suddenly has his arms full of angry Irishman, trying to prevent Gwaine from assaulting someone. He’s not the only one. More than a few of the lords are itching for a fight, eyeing the knights, eyeing Morgana and assessing their odds in a scuffle. They’re all scared. 

Morgana knows she could beat them. She’s Seen this, versions of it. Few end well for everyone, but if someone pulls a sword on her friends, she has no choice-

Leon interrupts her train of thought. He’s still restaining Gwaine, but he speaks slowly and calmly, addressing the entire room as if they’re not all about to start ripping each others throats out. “If we cannot put aside our personal feelings, we will not be able to change the laws of this land. I do not know how many of you care for the people under your protection, but there are many with nothing to their names, many with magic who still fear for their lives-”

“What good will magic do us?” Argas demands.

“It can make things equal,” Morgana responds, laying her palms flat on the table and leaning forward. “Magic can lives easier, make things fair for all citizens, not just those who have inherited their titles from their fathers-”

“Like you, Uther’s bastard? Giving commoners swords doesn’t change who you are or what you’ve done. It just makes it more pitiful.”

At this point, most of the members of the Round Table are either restraining or being restrained by their friends. Gwaine is at levels of anger only Percival can restrain, Gwen and Elyan are in some kind of scuffle with Gauis, and Bevediere is openly planning which of the lords he’s going to attack first.

Morgana wants to  _ scream _ . They were fools to think anyone would ever listen to them without force, fools to think they could change things peacefully. Her eyes glow gold with outrage; they asked why they should respect her? She would show them. It would be so easy to speak a spell, to make an example of these sniveling pigs and show them what happens when you insult the Queen of Camelot….

Leon places a hand on her shoulder. She turns around to snap at him, how is he so apathetic to this? Then she notices the tightness of his mouth, the hand straying to his sword. The silent ‘say the word’. He is prepared to fight for her, they all are. They are ready to defend themselves with more bloodshed, more violence, more repeated history. Say the word, and she will be the bloody Queen of Camelot with no challengers. 

Morgana looks to Gwen, engaged in a hushed and furious conversation with Elyan. Gwen, who will always be honest with her and prevent her from making hasty decisions. Elyan, who has never pulled punches and always puts common people above nobles in discussions. They’re standing in a corner, as there’s no room for them at the table. She looks to Leon behind her, preparing to defend the crown’s beliefs. What about his own? There is no chair for him at the table either. No chair for any of the knights.

The heckling advisors all stand at the far end of a cramped table, removed from the royal seat. They scream to be heard, to be noticed, to not be expendable. They are all angry that the status quo has changed, that they are now vulnerable. The table is too small.

Morgana knows what she has to do. “Αυξήστε και αλλάξτε για καλύτερη, στρογγυλή,” she says, extending her arm as her eyes take on the hue of forge fires. The lords jump back, screaming about attempted murder, but this spell is not for them. Or rather, it is not for hurting them. 

A fine golden mist descends over the council table, changing it before their eyes. It grows, sharp corners softening, and soon there is a Round Table in those old council chambers. A Round Table with a place for everyone.

Quietly, Morgana directs lords to their new seats, indicating the places beside them that their wives and eldest children will occupy. They look at her in poorly-concealed awe, unable to fathom a ruler who is not responding to hate with cruelty. 

She places Gwen to her right and asks two servants to take a seat and represent their people for today’s meeting. The knights are solemn, respectfully taking positions beginning with Leon on Morgana’s left and ending with Lancelot near the seat reserved for Gauis. Morgana designates hopeful places for Druid representatives, a High Priestess, a Dragonlord. There are places for representatives from all of Camelot’s provinces, places for visitors, places for commoners and ambassadors and merchants and generals and petitioners and magic-users alike, all marked with neat symbols and tasteful flourishes.

At the end of it all, she stands at a place reserved for Camelot’s leader and makes her position clear. “My friends, this is what magic can do. It can make things a little easier, a little fairer. It can allow everyone to be heard equally. But this means we have to be civil, all of us-” she looks to Gwaine,”no matter what we believe. We come here to ensure the health and safety of the kingdom we love, so we have to respect it’s citizens regardless of their beliefs or backgrounds. We must have that respect, or our circle will break. There is much work to do still, but I believe that this is a good foundation to build on.

“Now, if I may, I’d like to open discussion concerning repeal of the ban and alterations to the laws governing magic use. Anyone with opinions, ideas, or objections, please voice them now.”

The room is silent for a moment as everyone digests the change, quietly accepting this new order. There’s a few wary stares directed towards the triskelion now adorning the center of the table, but the main emotions are those of awe and relief. It’s as if everyone has been holding their breath for years and is just now finally realizing that there’s nothing to be afraid of anymore. They do not have to be cruel in order to protect themselves or uphold ideals they do not believe in. They have the freedom to be a little braver, a little bolder, a bit stronger in their convictions. 

To Morgana’s immense joy, the first to speak is the serving girl sitting next to Gwen. “M’name’s Aisling," she says as she stands, "and with all due respect your Majesty, if you really want to free Camelot’s magic, you’ll need some castle witches to start. As an example.” 

“They’ll require proper regulation,” Lord Ulfric chimes in, and suddenly everyone starts talking. Suggestions and proposals and stories move back and forth in a lively fashion as several dozen people(more servants who wander into the room are pulled into the madness, and they're a bit confused at first but they acclimate surprisingly quickly) put forth ideas and watch them grow. Morgana is only one voice among many as paper is fetched to draft rewrites of laws, and who knew you could be so happy just listening for a bit? Several councillors are recruited to help Geoffrey document everything as people throw out suggestions and write notes and offer to talk to people they know with magic. As it turns out, Uther wasn’t nearly as good at eradicating a whole group of people as he thought, and there’s plenty out there who want to get revenge in more constructive ways. They had just needed to be given a chance. (You see, cultures of freedom can be born from oppression, but they need to grow from love and joy. These people had plenty of both when it came to their home.)

The following months are the busiest and happiest of Morgana’s life. They see the ban on magic lifted and a small school started to educate those with skills they can now legally utilize-Gauis teaches occasionally and Morgana visits whenever she has time. The entirety of the original Round Table is officially knighted, even Gauis, despite his claims that he is too old for this. 

Leon is made Knight Captain General in an elegantly formal public ceremony, and that night he and Morgana have a long conversation about escaping the shadows of a man who didn’t even know he was casting them.

Gwen is declared Advisor to the Queen and Lady Mastersmith in another public ceremony-Morgana is a fervent believer in positive public ceremonies, where Camelot’s citizens don’t merely see whoever is being executed that week, but instead see power given to those who will protect and represent them, in a place where they can voice their approval. (It takes some time to convince Morgana that not everything needs to be announced, because she wants to keep the people informed of what the nobility is doing. The line is finally drawn when Percival refuses to publicize the fact that he helped a little girl find her dog, arguing that this was not a matter of civil importance. The Queen was forced to back down.) Leon’s and the knights' official ceremonies had been all fairly formal, a mark of respect to those that the citizens of the Lower Town considered decent men. (Gwaine’s had been a riot, however; the owner of the Rising Sun had asked if this meant that the crown covered his tab now, which had somehow turned into a rumor that the Queen was paying for everyone’s drinks. Simply put, there was chaos, and Lancelot felt a little ignored, as it had been his turn to be knighted next.)

But Gwen’s ceremony had been a triumph. It had begun with a few announcements, as there were now regular requests for those interested in knighthood or politics to please come up to the castle and help sort things out, as well as proclamations that some Lords and Ladies who had tired(read: never really liked but were forced into by tradition) of Court life were seeking work in trades if anyone was seeking labor or apprentices. This had been Gauis’ idea, backed by several nobles and a large number of the castle staff; the premise being that as long as necessary work was done and done well, who cared who was doing it? Now there were Ladies writing treaties, ex-lords tending horses, kitchen girl's debating policy in the halls and serving boys clamoring to learn magic. So it was a motley crowd of Camelot’s new and old working class that turned out to see one of their own officially declared the Queen’s right hand woman.

They’d gathered outside the castle gates, on and around a platform recently constructed specifically for these sorts of events. Spectators had whispered with awe and pride:

_ “That’s Tom’s girl, that is….” _

_ “Maid to a lady, look at her now…” _

_ “I heard she helped kill the king…” _

_ “Friend to witches and sorcerers…” _

_ “I heard she’s the reason the Lord Calormen was made to leave-” “The one who bedded kitchen girls?” “Heard she told him to leave or she’d forge a sword special for going through his liver…” _

_ “You know, she’s why the knights follow the Queen, those men are practically her brothers-” “One is her brother, you dolt…” _

_ “Kept Lady Morgana’s secrets all these years, the Queen wouldn’t be alive now without her…” _

_ “Heard she forged the sword that killed Uther…” _

_ “She’ll give those Lords a real what-for...” _

“Queen-maker,” the whispers say. 

Gwen glows with the praise as she stands before her Queen, smiling radiantly. She swears to protect Camelot and it’s citizens with her actions and until her last breath, then kneels before the people of her city. A great cheer goes up that only grows louder when Morgana asks of Camelot, “Do you accept this woman to forge your swords, to advise your Queen, and to represent you, the citizens of Camelot?”

“AYE!” The crowd shouts back. 

Morgana touches Gwen’s head and shoulders with a fine sword made by her father years ago, declaring, “May you never be undeserving of our faith today, and may you always work towards good. Rise, Lady Guinevere!” The crowd goes wild, cheering and screaming and whistling. 

Gwen is hoisted onto Elyan and Leon’s shoulders and paraded around the crowd. Someone places a crown of flowers on her head, and a particularly daring young wizard sets off some small fireworks. This is their daughter, their sister, their friend; this is a victory for every one of them who never thought they’d have a voice. (Even before the celebrations die down, Gwen is already making a list of issues to bring up in council. She refuses to let her people down.)

Morgana just watches, letting Gwen have her moment. She smirks at the rumors circulating; some of them are exaggeration, of course, but so many more of them are true.  _ Queen-maker _ . Gwen is a smith in more ways than one, cooling Morgana’s passion, shaping her fury, sharpening her wit, directing her temper. Just as she has forged weapons to improve knights’ skills, she has shaped Morgana and helped her grow from a Lady into a Queen.

It had been Gwen who had soothed Morgana’s fears in the early days of her rule….

“GWEN!” The new Queen of Camelot had certainly not been panicking prior to her first public appearance after Dragonbane. “Gwen!” She had not been panicking as she paced her new chambers, fighting the urge to try and glimpse the future or check her speech one last time. She couldn’t See how today would go, whether the people of Camelot would embrace change or hate her as much as Uther...but she had not been panicking. “Gwen, I need you!” She had just been...preparing nervously. 

Gwen had swept into the room, hair all a-floof from the flurry of activity preceding a royal speech in the Lower Town, and Morgana had been struck dumb for a moment before remembering why she was panic- _ preparing nervously _ . 

“Gwen, they’re going to hate me!”

“Milady-”

“Not today Gwen, not ever, please-” (Gwen still occasionally referred to Morgana as Milady, the years of forced propriety refusing to die completely).

“ _ Morgana,”  _ Gwen said in that tone of voice that means her best friend is worrying too much and needs to be calmed down before she does something stupid. “They’re going to adore you. Everything is ready; your dress is immaculate if I do say so myself, you know your speech back to front, and the whole city is a few pints away from dancing atop the old king’s grave.”

“Well, yes,  _ but _ -”

“But what?”

Morgana shook her head, turning away. “Never mind, it’s nothing.”

“ _ Morgana _ ,” Gwen insists, steering Morgana into a chair and looking her in the eyes. “What’s wrong?” Damn. The woman knew all her weaknesses.

“I’m not prepared for this!” Morgana blurted out. “I may be Uther’s daughter, may have made it this far, but how can I ever be Queen? I was never taught how to run a kingdom. Even when we started the Round Table, I never expected to be anything more than an advisor, maybe Court Sorceress or something similar. I never-

“I never went to meetings, never trained with the knights. I learned everything in secret and it may not be enough. They call me the Sorceress Queen, but I can’t even control my powers enough to see whether today will end in disaster or not!”

“Morgana-”

“What if I become like him? Uther? He was scared and angry and bitter and out of his depth when he began, that grew into hate and look what happened because of it! What if-”

“Morgana!” Gwen had to raise her voice to get her Queen’s attention, and they both looked a little surprised. Everyday Gwen is shedding more of the timid disguise she’d hidden behind in a castle where innocents could be sent to death without question. “Morgana,” she repeated one more time, asserting herself. “You will  _ never _ be like Uther. You are not the pain he put you through, and I know you are never going to put anyone else through that kind of pain. First, I won’t let you. Second, you’re a good person, and a damn fine Queen. You care, and you know enough. We’ll figure the rest out as we go along.” Morgana had physically melted a little as Gwen straightened her crown and used a finger to tilt her chin up. “If anything, the magic helps your image. It shows you’re a survivor to have made it this far, shows you understand what everyone’s been through.

“Now-”

“Now I have a queendom to address.” Morgana stands, and Gwen notices the fire in her eyes when she says ‘Queendom’. This is not a place for kings any longer. “But first,” Morgana had pushed Gwen into the chair before her vanity, quickly knotting and twisting her messy hair into an elegant updo supported by jeweled pins. “There, now the Queen’s Advisor is properly presentable.”

Gwen is stunned, “Ad-advisor?” 

“I’m going to announce it today, and formally induct you as soon as possible. You deserve nothing less, Milady Guinevere.” Morgana finished with a coy smile. 

Gwen had immediately pulled her into a rib-bruising embrace, whispering “I won’t let you down,” into Morgana’s shoulder.

“You never could.” 

“You know there are more important things than an induction ceremony, though. I’m not very important-” 

Morgana dismissed this with a wave of her hand, hugging Gwen even tighter. “There are very few things more important than you, Gwen.” 

Eventually they parted, Gwen straightened Morgana’s crown again, and they began making their way down to the courtyard. “The tax reduction measures should probably come first-”

“Yes, but you’re certainly more important than hosting Sir Cuthbert because he demands to ‘see the madness we’ve wrought’....

It had taken a little while to schedule the event-Gwen had been right, there were many things to be done by Camelot’s new Queen-but it had happened, and it was what Gwen had been waiting for her entire life. She had her place in Camelot, enough to support herself and even help others. After years of watching her fellows suffer under heavy-handed and clueless nobles, she can ensure fairness in treatment and pay.(Indeed, the first measures she brings to the Round Table are compensation compensation funds for those servants whose family members who fall ill or die. She remembers the days after her father had been killed, how only the charity of Morgana and Arthur had saved her from homelessness. That must never happen to anyone again.)

So the new Lady Gwen settles into a schedule; taking breakfast in her chamber while going over yesterday’s reports-a serving girl brings her breakfast, but she refuses help with dressing or cleaning her chambers-then joining Morgana for the morning meetings, either lunching with her or some of her friends in the Lower Town. Her afternoons are spent in the armory, going over shipments and maintenance and sometimes doing forge work even though she doesn’t strictly have to. Then she either sees petitioners on Morgana’s behalf or visits the Lower Town to see if anything needs her attention. She visits the knights after training, teasing her brother and inadvertently causing a few contests between young men and women seeking her favor, which she always resolves by giving away handkerchiefs to the youngest among the trainees. On her way to dinner, she visits her friends among the seamstresses and secretly rescues her dresses from the mending pile, as she prefers to fix things herself. 

Then, when she’s quite tired out for the day, she seeks out Morgana, makes her Queen stop whatever work can be delayed to tomorrow, and gets both of them fed. Over dinner they have long conversations about the day’s work, what needs to be done tomorrow, and you’ll never guess what Lady Bethesda said today(because some things never change, and gossip is one of them). Leon joins them some nights, sharing in drinks and gossip, but mostly it’s just Gwen and Morgana, plotting and talking and unwinding far from prying eyes and the expectations of professionalism.

Gwen enters Morgana’s chambers one night, fresh from an exhausting afternoon in the armory introducing the half-dozen new apprentices to the equipment and their forgemasters. Maybe Gwen hadn’t strictly needed to be present, but it was important that she had a hand in things. Besides the fact that she loved the forge, she refused to become a stuffy Lady of the court out of touch with the people that kept the city running, even if this meant that she did the equivalent of three people’s jobs as well as finishing Morgana’s paperwork when she had spare time.

Seeing that Morgana has already gotten some wine for them, Gwen pours herself a generous glass and props her feet on the table, reveling in the little luxuries.

“Gwen? Is that you?” Morgana calls out from her adjacent study. 

“Yes, Mil-Morgana. Are you going to come have some wine? Something the apprentices did today is sure to make you laugh!” 

Morgana pokes her head into the door of the bedchamber, obviously rather frazzled. “I don’t think I have time today Gwen, this letter to House Galens has to go out first thing tomorrow morning.”

Gwen walks into the study, carrying the jug of wine and a glass for Morgana. “I’ll help you then. You need to relax, you’ve been working all day-” 

“And sometimes I need to work all night, this isn’t an easy job, Gwen.”

“I know that-”

“No. Do you know what I’ve had to deal with today? First it was making an absolute fool of myself during my training session with Leon and having to show up to the merchant's guild meeting smelling like mud, then it was listening to petitions for ages, which you know I don’t mind, but I’m always worried that I’m making the wrong decisions. And then I had to redo some of the proposed legislations we were going over at lunch yesterday, because someone-” she looks pointedly at Gwen- “decided to go and finish them all on her own, which was very nice, but you left out the provisions for seacraft and the precedents, and those matter in something like this because the Lords won’t take you seriously unless you go exactly by procedures. And  _ then _ I had to listen to Lord and Lady Wayne for an hour, and they’re both lovely, but they agree on absolutely nothing except that their daughter is brilliant and that I should hire her to design the patrol towers near Greenbriar, which I actually should, but then I got news that the latest search for my idiot brother found nothing,  _ again _ , and I still have to write this Goddess-damned letter!”

Gwen lets her get all of this out. A few minutes go by before the flush in Morgana’s cheeks go down. She drinks a healthy measure of wine straight out of the jug. 

“I’m sorry about the legislation,” Gwen says to break the silence. “I thought it would be helpful.”

“No, I’m sorry for saying all of this to you and being rude. You mean well,  _ everyone  _ means well-” 

“It’s just a lot.” Gwen finishes. “We want to do everything, fix everything, and perfectly. But there’s only so much we can do in one day.”

“You’re right, you’re right. It just feels like I should be doing…”

“More?”

“Exactly.”

“I feel the same,” Gwen says as she takes a seat on Morgana’s desk. “I couldn't change much before, even as a member of the Round Table, and now I can do everything-”

“But you don’t have to do everything.”

“Neither do you, but you’re obviously trying to anyway.”

“Says the woman acting as my Advisor, Mastersmith, and Lady, all while taking forge orders  _ and  _ mending your own clothes  _ and  _ turning down my bed most nights-yes, I noticed.” Gwen looks sheepish for a moment. “Someone has to look after you when you insist on over extending yourself.”

Now, the next thing to come out of Gwen’s mouth is the result of years of attempting to obey proper etiquette clashing with her best friend and favorite person in the world insisting on being called by her given name. The war between ‘Milady’ and ‘Morgana” ended with: “My Morgana, have you ever considered that someone has to look after you as well?” Gwen’s eyes go wide as she realizes what she’s said. 

Morgana blushes, then smiles. “My Morgana,” she turns the words over, inspecting their promise. “I think I’d rather like to be yours, Milady Gwen. We can look after each other.” Gwen almost flees the room right then and there, but then decides to do something braver. Before she can change her mind, she pushes herself off the desk, straddles Morgana’s lap, and kisses her.

A very long time later, they separate to catch their breaths a bit. Morgana’s hair is the messiest it has ever been in Gwen’s long time as her friend, and while normally Gwen feels a rush of pride at the neat pins and curls she so carefully helps tease into place, the satisfaction of being the one who has mussed it all up is so much better. 

“You know,” Morgana is having a little difficulty breathing, “I really do have to finish that letter-”

“No you don’t,” Gwen cuts that train of thought off with another kiss, and then another, because kissing Morgana is very quickly becoming her favorite activity, and she intends to create ample time in her schedule for it every day. Her friend, her Queen, her  _ Morgana _ tastes like wine and lip paint, and her fingers are soft where she traces Gwen’s cheekbones and unpin her hair. 

‘You know, I think this is very responsible of us,” Gwen eventually gets out.

“How so?” Morgana asks, and Gwen can’t answer right away because Morgana’s tongue is doing something fabulous to the hollow of her throat-

“We can take care of each other properly.”

“Gwen darling, I hope that was a double entendre,” Morgana whispers as she kisses along Gwen’s jaw. 

“I hadn’t meant it to be, but if you’re willing-” she is cut off by another long kiss.

The letter to House Galens does not get written that night.

(However, several months later, many, many letters are sent out announcing a royal wedding and the coronation of Camelot’s Princess Consort. Morgana is a bit peeved that Gwen is not also getting the title of Queen, but honestly she’s too busy trying to prevent her fiancee from sewing her own wedding dress.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation of Morgana's Spell: Grow and Change for Better, Rounder
> 
> Thoughts: Yes, I am projecting onto my ladies here, but honestly I feel like these are feelings most women in positions of power get often. Imposter syndrome(feeling like you’re not good enough, like you’re faking) and feeling like if you have the ability to do something, you have to do everything possible. I mean, Morgana grew up in an environment where she was always told she wasn’t good enough, that she could only do certain things; that is definitely going to influence her style of rule, she’s so afraid that she’ll do something wrong-that someone will see what a mess she is-that she questions her own decisions and hold herself to impossibly high standards while also hating all the rules she has to abide by. And Gwen? She has been taking care of others in whatever way she can her whole life, and now she actually has the ability to make real change for the people she cares about, so of course she will feel this massive obligation to do absolutely everything.  
They're both endlessly frustrated by the world and dealing with it in different ways, and sometimes they need someone to tell them that they're doing okay.  
Those feelings never really go away, at least not in my-admittedly limited-experience. The most you can do is your best every day and remind yourself and the people around you that you are all fantastic. So of course my ladies get together, they understand and support each other in a way that few others can. (Also, it is now wlw yearning hours.)
> 
> And feel free to yell at me for not telling you what's happened to our resident gay idiots. All shall be revealed in the final chapter!


	5. I Had the Time of My Life, With You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for being late, but there were some....difficulties with this chapter. Plus I've been doing a ton of activism stuff lately and have to get my scholarship applications in, so the epilogue may be a bit behind. But enjoy this.  
(Love as always to all loyal readers and the best Beta ever, who just wrote a new thing called Stoire's Revenge, go read it right now)

Very quickly, it becomes clear that things are not okay. Merlin’s makeshift bandages are completely soaked through, more and more time is passing with Arthur not recognizing any of the land around them, and most worryingly of all, Merlin is horribly quiet. When they’d begun, Merlin had been quietly wondering how their family in Camelot was faring. Now the only sounds were occasional sharp breaths of pain. 

Another two hours passes in tense silence. There’s still no sign of Islington, or any town for that matter. But they’re not lost. They can’t be lost-

“Arthur…”

“Don’t.” Arthur says quickly, knowing where this conversation is heading.

“We’re not getting anywhere-”

“STOP!” 

“Don’t yell at me!” Merlin snaps indignantly.

“Not you, idiot, her! STOP! Please stop!” A little way in front of them, there’s a woman in brown robes carrying a leather bag, looking understandably disturbed at the sight of two bloodied men on horseback. 

She unsheathes a dagger, stepping into a defensive stance, demanding, “Who are you?”

Arthur raises his arms, then quickly lowers them again to prevent Merlin from pitching off the horse. “We come in peace! My friend is injured, is there a town or physician nearby that could treat him?” The woman says nothing, only stares them down. Her eyes narrow as she focuses on Merlin’s face. “Please-” 

“Arthur, wait.” Merlin interrupts Arthur’s plea, watching as the woman’s eyes flash gold for a moment. Merlin’s brow furrows in the way that means someone is speaking in his head. After a long moment, the woman speaks out loud.

“I am Ruiên, and you are Emrys, yet not Emrys. How?”

“I don’t know,” Merlin responds. “Something has changed though. You feel it too?”

“Anyone with a speck of magical talent could.”

Silence falls again as a mental conversation that does not include Arthur commences. Ruiên and Merlin both look melancholy when they finally speak out loud again.

“Thank you. I’m sorry for the trouble.”

“It is no great burden, Emrys. Nothing that cannot be borne.”

“What? What is it?” Arthur demands.

Ruiên ignores him. “My settlement is not far from here, the healers may be able to help you-”

“Lead the way!” Arthur shouts, jumping from the horse and grabbing it’s reins. Merlin smacks him on the arm. “If you will, please. Lead the way if you will.” Ruiên sniffs at Arthur’s rudeness, looking to Merlin as if to say ‘really?’. But her obvious judgement remains mostly nonverbal as she navigates the woods, Arthur at her heels.

Within half an hour, they arrive at an empty clearing. Arthur voices his confusion, but Ruiên just rolls her eyes and speaks a word of power. The air before her ripples, and she leads the horse through the shimmering air. A busy Druid settlement comes into view, and Ruiên calls out to a woman passing by. “Tania!” 

“Ruiên, what have you done now?” Tania accuses, putting her hands on her hips. The women are dressed in similar brown robes, but Tania wears both more elaborate embroidery and a look of annoyance.

“Absolutely nothing, they were like this when I found them. Where is Ilsa?” 

Tania mutters something under her breath about the Goddess saving her from fools. “She’s in her tent, who are these?”

“That one’s Emrys, the other is of no consequences.” Arthur huffs.

“Don’t joke-”

“No, it is Emrys, and he’s injured…” Ruiên lowers her voice, and Arthur misses the rest of the conversation. He doesn’t really care though, as a few moments later Tania walks away with a strange expression on her face. Ruiên leads them towards the healers tent. “ILSA!” She sticks her head into the surprisingly clean-looking tent. “She should be here in a moment,” Ruiên says, looking sad and annoyed all at once.

“Thank you,” Merlin says quietly, and Arthur empathetically repeats him. 

Ruiên just nods; “Goodbye Emrys,” she says quietly before departing. Arthur’s unease grows, even as the healer-an elderly woman who must be Ilsa-emerges from the tent. She takes one look at blood-soaked Merlin before waving the two of them inside, not bothering for formalities. 

Arthur carefully helps Merlin off the horse, carrying him into the tent. He’s worried, but for Merlin’s sake he tries to put it aside. Someone has to be sensibly optimistic right now. _ All will be well _, he tells himself. Merlin will be okay.

\-----

He’s dying. Merlin knows this. He can feel it in his soul. His magic is practically gone, and he is not someone who can live without magic. Even without a sword wound in his belly, he knows he would not have lived to see dawn. Now though, he may not live another hour. 

Dying hurts, he decides. Arthur is being as gentle as he can, carrying him like a bride into the healers tent, and Merlin doesn’t even have the energy to protest. His middle aches, hot and cold at the same time. Ilsa points to a cot in the corner, and Arthur lays him down, wiping hair from Merlin’s sweaty brow. 

Merlin greets the healer mentally, as talking just hurts too much at this point. *_ Don’t tell him yet, please.* _

_ *Tell him-oh* _ Ilsa goes quiet for a moment as she senses what Ruiên had, what Merlin already knows. _ *You’re dying* _

_ *Yes* _

_ *You’ll have to tell him soon, Emrys* _

_ *I know, but-* _

“Would everyone stop bloody speaking in their minds and use their mouths!” Arthur explodes, going red in the face with concern and frustration. “Merlin is-”

Ilsa raises her hand to cut him off. “_ Emrys _ is accompanied by a very rude man. Go make yourself useful, I need fresh water. Beg a bucket from Tania or someone, and be more polite to her than you are to me.”

Arthur doesn’t even object. “I’ll get it! I’ll be right back Merlin, don’t...just stay put, idiot.” Arthur runs from the tent, and he must be worried, because he gives Merlin a peck on the cheek before leaving, something he never does in public. Ilsa raises her eyebrows. Merlin smiles sheepishly, then grimaces as the ache in his abdomen begins to intensify. He suddenly has the ridiculous realization that there’s a hole in him. If he really wanted to, he could stick his hand through himself, couldn't’t he? This is unbearably funny for some reason, and he starts to laugh, which makes everything hurt more.

Ilsa shakes her head sadly. “Blood loss,” she pronounces. “You’re getting stupid, and delirious. Stay still.” She pushes him back on the cot, then grabs a jar of sweet-smelling paste. “This should help numb the pain, but there isn’t much else I can do. Magic won’t help you at this rate.” 

*That would be great,*Merlin grits his teeth against the pain. Ilsa helps him shift his shirt up so she can apply the paste to his wound. It’s nasty-looking, red and ripped and still bleeding slowly. 

“It’s a wonder you’re not dead already,” Ilsa says. 

*Magic helps a bit, I guess. Should have died long before this, I think, but the magic keeps me alive. Now the magic’s gone, so-*

Ilsa interrupts the morbid mental rambling. “Emrys, how old are you?”

*Twenty-five, twenty six next autumn.*

“Too young for this nonsense,” Ilsa declares. “All the prophecies never told us that we’d be dealing with two idiot boys. You can’t expect men to manage anything properly; look where trying has gotten you.”

*I’m still hopeful. Maybe some things will change after I’m gone.* 

“You could help more people if you were alive, you foolish boy.”

*It’s better than the alternative*

“What alternative? You better not be hiding something from me boy, secrets aren’t meant to be taken to the grave-”

*They were going to hurt Arthur.* Merlin says simply, looking despondent and determined. There’s not a single trace of regret on his face. He’d step between Arthur and a million swords. Better Merlin be stabbed anyway. Arthur would survive this. He would survive losing Merlin. Merlin doesn’t think he would be able to endure it if Arthur was the one that lay dying.

Ilsa just sighs. “Whoever is in charge of these things really needs to stop putting lovestruck young boys at the helm of destiny.” She looks to the roof of the tent and shouts a bit. “You hear me, Crone? Put a sensible woman in charge next time and stop killing cruelly and needlessly!” Merlin steadfastly stares at his feet. There were some things you just didn’t do in this world, and getting between a woman and her Goddess was one of them. 

He sighs as the paste slowly begins to numb his torso. The wound no longer feels like a white-hot skewer in his stomach. It still throbs and bleeds through, and he can smell the horrifying reality that his stomach juices are eating him alive. He wants to vomit a bit, but is afraid of what might come up.

Ilsa finishes berating her Goddess, looking angry and mad. “You’re a stupid, stupid boy. I hope you know this,” she says as she puts the herb past away. 

*Just make sure Arthur doesn’t do anything stupid, please? I know we ask a lot, coming here and begging for help and dying in your tent-*

“I am not so miserly as to deny a man’s dying wish.” It’s strange to hear it that way, to connect the idea of dying to things like last wishes, last words. 

*Thank you.* 

They sit quietly for a few moments until Arthur bursts back into the tent, carrying an overflowing bucket of water. “Is this enough?” What’s that paste? He’s going to be alright, isn’t he?”

“Arthur…”  
“I’ve done all I can for him,” Ilsa pronounces.   
“And?” Arthur demands. 

“Well, you stupid boy, this is what happens when-”

“Arthur..I’m sorry.” 

There’s a terrible moment of silence as Arthur takes in their expressions. All the color leaves his face, replaced by pure terror. “No.”

“Arthur, it’s-”

“NO! Don’t you dare say it’s okay! There must be something we can do!” He looks to Ilsa in a panic.

“There’s nothing we can do, he’s lost too much blood and his stomach is pierced. I cannot help him.” She looks between the two of them, “I’ll leave you to say your goodbyes.” She leaves the tent, swearing at her Goddesses and the foolishness of men.

Arthur clenches his fists, regarding Merlin in the bed. “I already told you, you’re not dying for me.”

“We can’t slip our way out of this one-”

“You’re not dying!”

“You don’t get a choice in the matter! You think I want to die? That I want to leave everyone? Leave you? Some things not even magic can stop.” He feels every small, and very cold. His throat hurts. 

“If it were me wounded, you’d be doing everything you could-”

“And I’d still end up here!”

“You don’t know that!”

“I do know that!” Merlin screams,and now he’s coughing on blood and bitter love. Because he would always end up here. Arthur rushes forward, looking sick with remorse. It takes a long time to stop coughing, fleshy bits of organs mixed with blood. Arthur holds his back, helps him drink some water. “It was always going to end up here, Arthur,” he gets out in a choked whisper. “I wouldn’t let it happen any other way. You’re needed, Arthur. No one needs me.”

“You stupid clotpole, _ I _need you. Ever think of that? Besides, your mother will flay me alive if I let anything happen to you.”

“Get ready for the whip then,” Merlin says hoarsely before he starts coughing again. Every time he moves, more blood and bile oozes out of his wound. Ilsa was a wonder, this should hurt far more than it did. He watches in a politely detached sort of way as a clear fluid leaks out of him, stained with red. The tent smells like death. Merlin falls back to the cot, gasping. This might be it. No, this was it. His throat hurts, his everything hurts. He can taste his blood. The end’s coming sooner than he’d like and Arthur won’t let him go. “Don’t do anything stupid,” he whispers.

“No, don’t you dare, Merlin. Don’t you dare try and say goodbye.” Arthur grabs both of Merlin’s hands in his own, bringing their faces close. Merlin can smell Arthur’s sweat, feel the bile caking his own throat. Distantly, it registers that they’re sitting in a pool of blood. 

“Since when have I ever listened to you?”

“Please,” Arthur begs. “Just this once do what you’re told.”

“I mean it dollophead, _ live _.”

“Without you?” Arthur whispers. Then...Merlin’s body registers it before his mind does. Darkness begins to drag at him, and he can’t feel anything. He wants to close his eyes. “Merlin, please! Stay with me!”

“Arthur….” His last sight is his husband’s grieving face, then things fade to black. His last thought is mild annoyance that he couldn't muster up better last words, but then again, it was fitting that his end was Arthur.

\---------

According to prophecy, Emrys was the Immortal One, unable to die so long as the Once and Future King had need of him. When Destiny is shaken though, so is any promise of eternity. So the man who was once the Once and Future King was left holding the man who had been Emrys as the warlock slipped out this mortal world. 

Merlin died.

Arthur did not cry as he watched the life leave Merlin’s eyes. He did not cry. He _ roared _. Merlin had been the dragon-kin, Arthur was only dragon-named, but how he roared as he held Merlin’s body, it seemed that a furious and fiery beast lived inside those fragile human bones. A tiny human body couldn't possibly contain this much rage, this much grief. Then again, Arthur had always defied expectations. 

So he roared. He screamed himself hoarse, begged, pleaded, threw things, beat the ground until his fists were bloody, demanded of the Earth and Sky and every god he’d ever heard of that Merlin be returned to him. “We had a destiny!” He insisted. “He can’t leave me here!” He pleaded. “Please,” he begged. It did nothing.

Finally, after an age, his roaring stopped. He broke down sobbing, wondering why here, why now, when they’d already survived so much and fully intended to have their forever. He didn’t know that Destiny is not kind to it’s discarded pawns. There was no escaping the fact that their story was a tragedy, a tragedy that had to be fulfilled.

But even Destiny cannot stop the stubborn will of humans who love things to destruction. In another version of this story, hope is lost and there is a body to bury. Perhaps Arthur doesn’t listen; perhaps there are two graves laying side by side. But that is not this story. (What kind of story did you think this was, anyway? To hurt and hurt and give nothing back? No, stories should never reflect real life in that manner.)

In this story, here and now, there is a man, face wet with tears and throat hoarse from screaming. He extricates himself from Merlin, then leaves the tent. He does not look at Merlin’s body, small in death. He refuses to accept this, to have this pain be the end of their story. He does not look at Merlin’s body, because when Merlin lives again, he does not want the limp corpse to taint their memories. 

He storms into the center of the settlement, torn between respect and his own pride. He needs help, but has never been good at asking for it. He feels their eyes on him, regarding the blood and tear-stained man with pity. Arthur still has a scrap of _ something _about him though. Destiny is muddled and Emrys is gone, but something of his king still remains. Perhaps it is enough to change the world again. 

Arthur scans the crowd, having originally planned for something like a contest of wills, a challenge where the reward was Merlin’s return. (But you see, life isn’t like that, so straight forward like a jousting tournament. It’s a mix of everything, especially a whole lot of struggle. Kindness makes things easier, though. At this exact moment, many miles away, Morgana is transforming a square table into a Round, changing the way things are done. Arthur has to do the same, has to make a different sort of choice to truly change things. To once and for all destroy his destiny. Morgana had done it first, taking up a crown. Now Arthur would have to cast his away.)

“I need help,” he begins. “Please.”

Ilsa, the healer, decides to take a smidge of pity on him. “What do you think we can do? If we as a people had power over life and death, would you think we would carry around the pain of lost loved ones? What makes you special?” The crowd seems to agree. 

Arthur stops. His throat is clogged with a million things he could say, a thousand protests, a hundred orders he would have given as a king. He cannot do that any longer. He can take no more. “I can give the weight of a broken destiny back to the world.” He says quietly. “When I was born, I took something from the world, something far more powerful and meaningful than a son of a Duchess and a warlord was owed. I think...I’ve twisted things around. I wasn’t supposed to be this important, was I?” He’s not sure if he’s addressing the druids or himself, but something feels right about his words. “I’m never going to wear a crown again, but some part of that heritage or destiny or whatever you call it is still attached to me. I can surrender it. Maybe-”

“You want to recreate balance. Destiny in exchange for Life.”

“Yes.”

“That is just mad enough to work.” Ilsa shakes her head in an odd kind of fascination, looking at him if he’s some kind of creature she’s never seen before. (Which was warranted, because have you ever heard of a would-be hero that gave up fame for a long life with those they love? No? Me neither. This is why she says yes, because no matter who they are, when you can help someone regain a lost loved one, you do it.) “What you suggest has never been done before,” she reminds him. Because it is mad. “Changing destiny, more than that, telling it to sod off and leave us all alone.”

“Someone has to do it. Besides, I think we’re far away from what was supposed to happen anyway, aren’t we?” 

“Too true.” Ilsa acknowledges. (Because here is how the story was meant to go, how you’ve probably heard it. Warring siblings under a tyrant king leading to swords in stomachs, an eternal intermission on the edge of a lake, Magic itself mourning. But here and now, it is the human who has survived, all rage and stubbornness and fierce fierce love. The story will be rewritten as he commands, and a small memorial built where the fourth wall used to stand.)

At the end of everything, it’s a laughably simple spell, one used for soothing children’s hurts. The ingredients are grander, for certain, but the core of it remains the same. Mending something not meant to be broken. Ilsa’s eyes glow starlight-gold as she speaks words of power over Merlin’s body. For a moment, Arthur merely watches. Then, he feels the magic moving through the small space of the tent. The power of it sends him to his knees, and he suddenly knows what his part in this is.

“For balance, we ask the earth for this trade,” he begins, . The words in his head are English, but a far older language emerges from his throat. “A destiny for a life,” he continues as Ilsa chants, summoning the energy of the air and earth and binding it to what Arthur is offering. “I renounce my kingship, here and evermore, for the life of Emrys’ host.” Like all magic, this is an agreement, an exchange. What is different is that someone without a scrap of magic about them is describing the terms, with no concern for his own gain. It is surrender, humanity bowing at the feet of magic and begging for something to be returned. It is simply wanting someone you love back.

The final words of Ilsa’s spell hang in the air, a tangible weight as they consider Merlin’s body. They’ve made their offer, now all that remains is to see if it will be accepted. “Please, please, please, _ come on _,” Arthur murmurs, as if his non-magical platitudes could breathe life back into an unmoving body. 

“Wait a moment…” Ilsa whispers. “The spell goes out, but it has to find it’s way back. Patience-”

The spell comes back, flooding the space with a heady presence that makes Arthur’s head spin. Symbols glow in the air above Merlin’s body, slowly fading away. Ilsa watches them carefully, making sure the terms of the contract have been honored as they requested; Arthur barely notices their existence. His eyes are focused on the gentle rise and fall of Merlin’s chest. Merlin is breathing. 

They’re breathing together as the color slowly returns to Merlin’s face. Ilsa is a force to be reckoned with as she wraps Merlin’s wound properly; it’s already killed him, but what’s left of it after the healing could still get infected. Arthur watches carefully, waiting for the moment Merlin will wake up and just trying to wrap his head around the fact that Merlin is _ alive._

Ilsa leaves Arthur to continue wrapping the bandages, proclaiming that after a spell like that she needs to eat something and sleep it off. Arthur thanks her profusely, offering any kind of help he can provide for as long as he’s alive. “I might just take you up on that, boy.” She murmurs as she wanders off, refusing any help walking. 

It feels unreal. He is in a Druid tent, free, with Merlin who is not dying and not dead but very much alive, and they have their whole lives ahead of them. They survived. Merlin opens his eyes to see Arthur grinning like an idiot, being very much alive and breathing. They’re still breathing, and it’s so much easier now, with the weight of destiny off their chests. 

Merlin shatters the moment of peace with an indignant, “What have you done now, you clotpole?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, not gonna lie, THIS SHIT HURT.  
Writing it caused me pain, typing it hurt, editing was just destroying me emotionally, because WHY DO I DO THESE THINGS TO MYSELF.  
(Originally it was going to be worse, this is titled Romeo and Juliet AU in my drafts, yeah, I was going to kill them both, what's wrong with me?)  
BUT HE'S OKAY THE IDIOTS ARE OKAY  
the whole ending came out way differently than I was expecting, because I had Arthur behaving very differently until I realized that nothing is going to change until some behavior changes, you can't bully people into bringing others back to life with power you can't hope to command.  
I hope this was satisfying and I hope that I broke your heart.  
Credit to Stevie Nicks for helping me get the last half of this written


	6. One Day We Will Be Remembered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is! The end!  
This fic has been a labor of love since I first had the idea back in July, and writing it helped me get through college applications, college acceptance, and a lot of internalized shit that I'm not going to get into. This is the first multi-chapter fic I've ever completed and I'm really really proud of myself.  
I put a lot of work into this, draft after draft so that is could become something I wanted to say, and I think I accomplished that.  
Thanks to everyone who's stuck with me this long, especially my beta Jess.  
Hope you all enjoy; Long Live the Queen!

Much later, there’s a meeting in the smallest tavern of a small town that has never seen anything quite as grand as the Queen of Camelot and her court. The gold placed on the counter with a sly smile ensures that they never will. Morgana spots her idiot brothers almost immediately, sitting in a booth and somehow oblivious to the small crowd that has just entered the tavern. She wants to walk over and scare the pair of them, say something witty that will be a fitting beginning to this part of their lives where she is Queen and they are...whatever they are now, but she’s beat to it. 

Within seconds of entering the tavern, the Princess Consort of Camelot spots her best friend and her new brother-in-law, and marches over to their table. The assorted knights of the Round Table who came along on this trip just watch, because this is going to be good.

“Gwen!-” Merlin is cut off by a punch to the arm. Then he finds himself being viciously hugged, so this is becoming a very confusing day.

“You idiots! Sorry about the arm, but really?” Gwen starts off strong and keeps going. “We thought you were dead! We thought the dragon ate you or soldiers killed you or Arthur finally went through on his threat to strangle you!”

“I would never-”

“I did not say you could speak!” Gwen points a finger and Arthur wisely decides to hide behind his husband. “We just didn’t know! You want to know why we didn’t know? Because you never came back, never sent word, for months-”

“Seven months and twelve days, darling!” the Queen of Camelot chimes in, enjoying herself far too much.

“_Thank you_ _Morgana!_” Arthur snaps before refocusing his attention to Gwen. 

“Seven months and twelve days of us thinking you were dead or worse, Merlin you didn’t even scry us-”

“See, about that,” Merlin interrupts, and Arthur is suddenly very afraid he’s about to become a widower. “I can’t...the scrying, I can’t really do that, any more.”

“You can’t scry? What did you do?”

“It wasn’t my fault!”

“You jumped in front of a sword-”

“He was going after you-”

“That wasn’t my fault-”

“SHUT UP ALL OF YOU!” Morgana thunders, having realized that this argument was not going to stop anytime soon. “Arguments and explanations later. Now, who wanted to hug them and who wanted to punch them?” The knights remain a safe distance away from a still-angry Gwen, then set about greeting Arthur and Merlin. (Not that Arthur was keeping track, but he was punched considerably more than Merlin. Although Gwaine and Gwen got into a small scuffle about who got to chew their friend out for doing a series of incredibly stupid things and Gwen eventually had to pull rank to win, so that was almost worth Elyan giving him a solid punch to the chest for making his sister cry.)

Morgana had thought that this meeting might be awkward, everyone meeting again after Destiny had been flipped on its head. But no. There were the same jokes, same stories, same reminders that Leon should never take part in drinking contests. 

(“You want to know why I drink? He’s sitting right over there. Didn’t drink a drop until he started knight training, now look at me, three tankards in-” 

“That’s your fourth, Captain.” 

“See! Look what he’s done to me!”) 

(Who’s up for arm wrestling?”

“Percy, that is objectively not fair-”

“I’ll do it!”

“Elyan don’t!”

“I fight the winner!”

“ _ Arthur! _ ”)

(“You got married?!”

“It was beautiful, even if Morgana wouldn’t let me sew my own gown, which is silly, because why have a seamstress do it if I’m perfectly capable-”

“You got married!”

“Yes Merlin, we’ve been over this….how much did you have to drink?”

“I can’t believe I wasn’t invited!”

“ _ Gwaine _ !”

“I only gave him half a pint!”

“You really should have invited me, I would have worn a feathery hat-”

“No more ale for you.”)

Morgana smiles from the corner where she is quietly nursing a tankard of mead. Arthur stumbles out of his failed arm wrestling competition to sit next to her. For a few moments, they just enjoy the antics of the wonderfully ridiculous people in their lives. 

“I Saw this, you know.” 

“Yeah?”

“This and better, this and worse. Mostly worse. I never really thought we’d end up here.”

“You mean happy?”

“Exactly. It always seemed as if we were doomed to tragedy because of fights we didn’t start.”

“I can understand that. For so long the world was one way, and then suddenly it was another, and I’m not quite sure what to do with the rest of my life.”

“I have some ideas. It’s still so strange, though. I was never supposed to be Queen. I’ve Seen so many versions of ourselves where I was angry and lonely and desperate and couldn’t hold back my hate. Versions where I kill all of you for a crown I never get to wear, completely convinced I’m in the right. It’s rather hard to realize that none of that is going to happen now, to accept that we have peace in our own ways.”

They sit silently for a few more minutes, watching Gwen challenge a rather drunken Leon to an arm wrestling contest. It’s safe to say that no one wins.

“That’s not what matters now, is it?” Arthur begins quietly. “What could have happened?” I’m no Seer, but there is this...feeling. When Merlin died-I’ll explain later,” he adds as he sees the look on Morgana’s face. “When he died, we both gave up something. When Uther died, you gained something. It feels different and right and a little impossible, like-”

“Like we’ve done something momentous by just surviving. That night, we all came so close to death, and to things staying the same. But we changed instead. We broke something, but in the best way possible.”

“We’ve grown up a bit, haven’t we?”

“Only a little,” Morgana concedes as they watch their respective spouses attempt to bribe Lancelot into arm wrestling Percival so they can bet on it. “But we’re a long way from where we used to be.”

“You did it. Queen of Camelot.”

“No,  _ we _ did it,” Gwen corrects him as she joins the conversation, very nearly sitting in her wife’s lap. “Queen and Mastersmith. You, my good sir-” and this is how Morgana knows that Gwen is just a little tipsy- “certainly have enough experience to be a general, so don’t even think about putting Sir Leon out of a job, and our Merlin…” she trails off as she watches her lightweight friend down a tankard of mead before proceeding to arm wrestle Percival without Percival’s knowledge. 

“Best not to put him in charge of anything too serious,” Morgana decides, and they laugh.

“So,” Arthur says, looking at his Queen and quite liking the look she has on her face, a look that promises wonderful things if you’ll only hang on for the ride. "What are we going to do next?"

“I have been considering an alliance with Caerlon,” Morgana reveals with a sly smile, slipping back under the mantle of queen. She’s a different kind of queen than she’d ever thought she’d be, plotting at a warm tavern table with her wife and brother.

Gwen grabs a piece of parchment from her pocket and begins drawing a simple map. “After we’ve a garrison stationed in Caerleon and public opinion is in our favor, Lot’s kingdom would easily agree to negotiations. A sizeable force to intimidate might mean no battles to expand our borders to the mountains-”

“And North Wales is on the other side, and they’ve a sizable magic population and a problem with their neighbors to the west. We could trade troops for magical education.”

Arthur chuckles. “I have a wonderful feeling I’ll be calling you High Queen of Albion one day.”

“I do like the sound of that. Now, how would you say our cavalry compares to Lot’s?” Morgana begins jotting down notes as Gwen and Arthur list off figures, Elyan and Lancelot occasionally chiming in as they’re the only ones left sober at this point.

A new sort of story started being written right there, with scraps of paper and shouted suggestions from friends and interruptions to another chorus of a highly inappropriate song. It wasn’t happily ever after, merely the start of a Golden Age. (I’m sure you’ve heard of it.) It was a good Golden Age, one that lasted longer than most and never really fell, only faded, waiting for someone to come and polish a coin again. But that’s a story for another time. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song of the Witches by S.J. Tucker was what I listened to while editing this, it's excellent

**Author's Note:**

> So i squealed while writing the proposal scene.  
And yes, the title and chapter names are from Taylor Swift's 'Long Live', which is such a Merthur song, go listen to it right now.


End file.
